Il 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 


ELIZABETH   HARDISON 


WHAT    IS   SHAKESPEARE? 


■J^^^o- 


WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 


AN    INTRODUCTION   TO   THE 
GREAT    PLAYS 


BY 


L.   A.    SHERMAN 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH    LITERATURE   IN  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  NEBRASKA 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON:   MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1902 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1901, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  December,   1901.      Reprinted  June, 
August,  1902. 


Nortoootr  l|rtsa 

J.  S.  Cuihing  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


GEORGE   EDWIN    MacLEAN 


CONTENTS 


WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 


A  Shakespeare  paradox 
Shakespeare's  public 
Shakespeare  as  a  novelist  . 
Difficulties  of  reading  this  author 
Proper     materials    for     literary 

treatment 

What  all  men  seek      .        . 


What  it  is  to  be  educated  .  .  7 
What  Shakespeare  can  supply  to 

men  ......  7 

This  author  cannot  be  imparted 

by  abstractions         ...  7 

Plan  of  the  work ....  8 


II 


CYMBELINE 


Use  of  the  two  Gentlemen  . 

Imogen  released  from  prison 

Imogen's  repose  and  fortitude    . 

Her  keepsake  gift 

Her  matter-of-fact  quality  of 
mind 

Why  the  first  scene  laid  in  a  gar- 
den   

Cymbeline's  fatuous  rage    . 

Imogen's  tastes   .... 

Cloten's  assault  upon  Posthumus 

Cloten's  imbecility 

Imogen's  devotion 

Posthumus  as  Philario's  guest    . 

lachimo's  craft    .... 

His  motive 

Posthumus  overmatched     . 

The  Queen's  request  for  poisons 

Pisanio  provided  with  the  drugs 


9 

lachimo's  first    impressions    of 

10 

Imogen     .... 

32 

II 

Her  influence  upon  his  language 

34 

12 

His  innuendos      . 

35 

Imogen  not  jealous 

37 

13 

lachimo's  humiliation 

39 

He  unsays  his  slander 

40 

14 

His  strategy  of  the  trunk     . 

41 

15 

Imogen's  power  . 

42 

16 

Cloten  belated  in  dissipation 

43 

17 

Imogen  a  reader 

43 

18 

Her  lack  of  curiosity  . 

44 

19 

lachimo's  fear 

46 

22 

Cloten's  serenade 

47 

23 

He  calls  Imogen  sister 

49 

24 

Cloten's  grievance 

52 

26 

Posthumus   unadvised  of    Imo 

29 

gen's  troubles  hy  lier 

54 

30 

lachimo  infuriates  Posthumus 

55 

VUl 


CONTENTS 


Posthumus's  resolve  to  punish 

Imogen     .... 
The  Queen's  policy  in  Roman 

matters      .... 
The  need,  for  plot  purposes,  of 

a  war        .... 
Posthumus's  demands  upon  Pi 

sanio         .... 
Imogen's  response  to  her  hus- 
band's summons  . 
Posthumus's  letter  to  Imogen 
Belarius  and  the  Princes     . 
Cymbeline's  Latin  tastes     . 
Posthumus's    second    letter   to 

Pisanio     .... 
Effect  of  her   husband's    order 

upon  Imogen   . 
Imogen  willing  to  go  to  Italy 
Cloien  inveigled  to  Milford 
Cloten   made  to    wear    Posthu- 
mus's garments 
Imogen     bewildered    and 

hausted     .... 
Imogen    found   in   the   cave  of 

the  mountaineers 
Imogen  fascinates  her  brothers 
lachimo  drawn  into  the  British 

war 

Imogen  left  in  the  cave  by  the 

hunters      .... 
Cloten  arrived  in  Wales 
Cloten's  death 
Imogen  brought  out  as  dead  by 

Arviragus 
Arviragus  and  Guiderius  in  con 

trast 

Belarius  kept  from    the    burial 

situation  .... 


PAGE 

The  burial  song  recited  by  the 

brothers 85 

Cloten's  body  laid  by  Imogen  .  86 
Imogen     recovered     from     the 

effects  of  the  drug    .        .        .86 
Imogen     swoons     on     Cloten's 

body 87 

Imogen   found   by  Lucius         .    87 
Imogen   made    willing    by    the 
supposed    mutilation    of    her 
husband's  body  to  leave  Britain     89 
The  use  of  her  insult  to  Cloten  .    90 
Cymbeline's  lethargy  lifted  .    90 

The    forces    of    Cymbeline    in 

Wales 92 

Posthumus    keeps    the    bloody 

handkerchief    .        .         .         .92 
lachimo's  conscience  aroused  .    93 
Cymbeline   rescued  by  Posthu- 
mus's aid 94 

Posthumus  seeks  death  .  .  95 
Cornelius  and    court    ladies   in 

Wales 96 

Lucius   bespeaks  his   life    from 

Imogen 98 

Imogen  recognises  her  mother's 

ring 98 

lachimo's  confession  .  .  .99 
The  agony  of  Posthumus  .  .  100 
Imogen's  sorrow  for  the  Queen's 

death 102 

Guiderius       proved      Imogen's 

brother 102 

lachimo  pardoned  by  Posthu- 
mus   103 

The  character  of  Imogen    .        .  105 
Shakespeare  a  revealer  and  in- 
terpreter of  life         .        .        .  109 


III 


THE   winter's   tale 


The  Winter's  Tale  opened  like 

Cymbeline  .         .         .         .  m 

Leontes  and  Polyxenesat  odds  .  112 
Hcrmione  humours  her  husband  113 
Mamillius     used     against     his 

mother ue 

Camillo  forced  into  a  plot  against 
Polyxenes         .        .        .        .117 


Polyxenes  apprised  of  the  plot  .118 
Mamillius  used  in  his  mother's 

behalf ng 

Hermione  requests  from  her  son 

a  story ng 

Leontes  and  his  lords  enter  the 

Queen's  apartments  .         .  120 

Hermione's  repose       .         .         .  122 


CONTENTS 


IX 


Hermione  ordered  to  prison  .  122 
The    appeal    to    the    oracle    at 

Delphi 123 

Greene's  novel  of  Dorastus  and 

Faivnia 124 

Paulina  as  Hermione's  foil  .  124 

Paulina  brings  the  babe  to  the 

King 126 

Paulina  defies  the  guard  .  .  127 
The  need  of  an  Antigonus  .  128 

Cleomenes  and  Dion  hastening 

for  the  Queen's  sake  .  .  129 
Hermione  brought  to  the  sessions  129 
Her  absolute,  unshrinking  faith  130 
The  King  put  to  confusion  .  131 

The  response  of  the  oracle  .  132 

Leontes  impugns  the  decision  .  132 
Report  of  Mamillius's  death       .  132 


Hermione's  swoon  .  .  .  133 
Paulina's  invective  against   the 

King 133 

Hermione     and     Imogen    con- 
trasted        13s 

The   Globe   and   Blackfriars   as 

centres  of  influence          .        .  136 
The  limitations  of  the  plot  in  The 
Winter's  Tale  ....  139 
The  Winter  s  Tale  a  comedy     .  141 
Perdita  shown  in  false  positions    142 
Florizel  characterised          .        .  143 
Polyxenes  and  Camillo  try  Per- 
dita   144 

Perdita's  welcome  to  her  friends  145 
The  use  of  Polyxenes's  anger  .  146 
Perdita's  self-possession  .  .  147 
Perdita  in  Paulina's  chapel         .  148 


IV 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET 


The  plot  borrowed  from  Brooke  149 
Purpose  of  ttie  street  fray  .  .  150 
Romeo  in  love  with  his  ideals  .  151 
Juliet's  mother  ....  152 
The  art  of  portraying  character  153 
Juliet's  nurse  ....  153 
Paris  recommended  to  Juliet  .  155 
Mercutio    a    nearer    friend    to 

Romeo  than  Benvolio      .         .  156 
The  meeting  of  Romeo  and  Ju- 
liet      156 

Tybalt's  interference  .  .  .  157 
Juliet  of  Gothic  temperament  .  160 
Use  of  the  chorus  .  .  .  160 
Rosaline  a  symbol  of  his  ideal  to 

Romeo 162 

The  change  in  Romeo  after  the 

sight  of  Juliet    ....  162 
Mercutio  not  lofty  minded  .  164 


16S 

167 
168 


170 


Juliet  gives  up  her  hate  of  the 

Montagues 
Romeo's   mind   and   Juliet's   in 

contrast     .... 
Juliet  plans  for  both    . 
Shakespeare's  alleviation  of  the 

haste  .... 

The  climax  of  the  balcony  scene  173 
The  intuition   of  Shakespeare's 

women 174 

The    Romeo    and    Jtiliet   only 

another  Cymbeline  .  .  .  175 
The  basis  of  this  play  .  .  .  176 
Mercutio's  gifts  made  over  to 

Romeo 177 

The  deeper  meaning  of  the  play   178 
The  art  of  the  play  not  inferior  to 

the  art  of  Cymdeline  and  The 
Winter's  Tale  .        .        .        .181 


THE  DRAMATIC  ART  OF  MACBETH 


The  "  maximum  consummation ' 
in  Shakespeare's  dramas 


The  first  condition  of  tragedy 
Duncan  an  unkingly  figure 


184 
185 


CONTENTS 


Use  of  the  battle  in  Lochaber 

The  Witches'  Masters 

The  opening  scene 

The  Witches  differentiated 

Use  of  the  Sergeant     . 

Malcolm,  like  the  King,  unmar- 

lial    ..... 
The  composite  battle  . 
Macdonwald  bewitched 
Sweno  also  handicapped  by  the 

demons     .... 
Macbeth  as  the  saviour  of  Scot 

land 

The  new  mischief  of  the  Witches 
Macbctlvs  satisfaction  over  the 

battle         .... 
The  prophecy  touching  his  future 
The  Minor  Obstacle    . 
The  Major  Obstacle    . 
Resolution  of  the  Minor 
Lady  Macbeth  as  the  new  factor 

in  the  plan         ... 
Her  worship  of  her  husband 
Banquo  as  Duncan's  chamber 

lain 

The  first  crisis  of  the  play   . 
The   close   of  the  First  Act  ir 

Shakespeare     . 
Banquo's    defection    from    the 

King         .... 
The  effect  of  his  resolve  upon 

Macbeth   .... 
The  Major  Obstacle  removed 
Macbeth   and    Lady   Macbeth' 

fiist  blunders    . 
Macbeth 's  fatal  error  . 
Lady  Macbeth's  swoon 
Macbeth    and     Lady    Macbeth 

appear  crowned  but  once 


PAGE 

i86 
187 
187 


197 
197 


199 


200 
202 


203 
204 

205 

206 

206 
208 

209 
210 
211 


FAGK 

Macbeth's  hate  of  Banquo .  .  213 
The  Third  Murderer  .  .  .214 
Banquo's    ghost    an   apparition 

raised  by  the  Witches  .  .  215 
The  climax  of  the  banquet  scene  216 
The  subjective  climax  of  the  play  217 
Macbeth  degraded  by  applying 

to  the  Witches  .        .        .  218 

The  pretended  ghost  of  Banquo 

again  shown  ....  219 
The  butchery  of  Lady  Macduff 

and  her  children  .  .  .  219 
Malcolm  subordinates  Macduff.  221 
Duncan  of  the  Edward  Con- 
fessor type  of  king  .  .  .  222 
Malcolm  amended  martially  .  222 
The  Fourth  Act  in  Shakespeare 

a  preparing  time  .  .  .  223 
The  climax  in  the  sleep-walking 

scene 224 

Macbeth    and    Cyinbeline    com- 
pared         225 

Cymbeline,  a  tragedy  .  .  .  227 
The    obstacles    in    Romeo    and 

Juliet 229 

The   subjective  climax  in  these 

plays 230 

Novels  constructed  on  Shake- 
speare's plan  ....  230 
Richard  Carvel  ....  231 
Quentin  Durward  ,  .  .  231 
Evan  Harrington  .  .  .  232 
Ultimate  meaning  of  the  novels .  233 
Tennyson's  The  Princess  .  .  234 
The  Short  Story  ....  235 

Quo  Vadis 235 

Cyrano  de  Bergerac    ,        .        .  235 


VI 


SHAKESPEARE   THE   MAN 


The  birth  of  Shakespeare  .        .  236  I  Shakespeare's  father   .        .        .238 
First    mention    of   the   poet  in  The  poet's  birthplace  .        .        .239 

formal  Latin     ....  236    Shakespeare's  country         .        .  240 
Shakespeare's  mother          .        .237    The  Free  Grammar   School   of 
T  homas  Cromwell's  injunction  Stratford 242 

to  the  clergy     .        .        .        .  237  |  Shakespeare's  teachers        .        .  243 


CONTENTS 


XI 


Shakespeare's  diction .        .        .  243 
John  Shakespeare's  waning  for- 
tunes          244 

Shakespeare's  marriage       .        .  245 
A  possible  precontract  of  mar- 
riage   247 

The  deer-stealing  episode  .  .  249 
Shakespeare  in  London  .  .  250 
The  attack  of  Greene .  .  .  251 
Chettle's  apology  .  .  .  253 
Shakespeare  as  an  actor  .  .  255 
Venus  and  Adonis        .         .         .  257 

Lucrece 258 

Titus  Andronicus  ,  .  ,  259 
77ie  Comedy  of  Errors  .  .  260 
Romeo  and  Juliet  .  ,  .  260 
Grant  of  coat  armour  .        .  261 

Purchase  of  New  Place  .  .  261 
Shakespeare's  income  .  .  263 
Friendship  of  the  poet  with  Ben 

Jonson 263 

The  Pa//adis  Tamia  .  .  .  265 
The  Globe  Theatre  .  .  ,  267 
T/ie  Aferry  Wives  .  .  .  268 
Trvelfth  Night  .  .  .  .268 
T/ie  Returne  from  Pernassus      .  269 


Hamlet 

The  period  of  Shakespeare's 
maturity 

The  Stratford  tithes     . 

Marriage  of  Susanna  Shake- 
speare        

The  Sonnets  .... 

The  dark  lady      .... 

Shakespeare's  optimism 

The  Blackfriars  Theatre 

Cytnbeline     .         .         .         .         , 

The  Winter's  Tale 

Shakespeare's  London  house 

The  Globe  Theatre  burned 

Shakespeare's  will 

Death  of  the  poet 

Inscription  on  his  tomb 

The  Stratford  bust 

The  Droeshout  portrait 

The  saneness  of  Shakespeare's 
mind 

The  Bacon  question    . 

Shakespeare's  learning 

The  burden  of  proof  in  the 
Shakespeare-Bacon  contro- 
versy          


269 

269 
270 

270 
270 
272 

273 
274 
274 
274 
274 
275 
275 
27s 
277 

277 
279 

280 
282 
283 


284 


VII 


THE  GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS 


Strictures  of  Ben  Jonson  .  .  285 
Shakespeare  and  the  classicists  .  286 
Shakespeare's  borrowed  plots  .  286 
Divisions  of  the  plays  .  .  287 
Two  principal  periods  of  pro- 
duction      288 

The  pessimistic  plays  .        .        ,  289 

Hamlet 290 

King  Lear 303 

Julius  Ccesar      ....  312 


Othello 

Antony  and  Cleopatra  , 
Coriolanus    , 
Muck  Ado    . 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream- 
Taming  of  the  Shrew  . 
Twelfth  Night      . 
As  You  Like  It     . 
The  Merchant  of  Venice 


-  313 

•  315 
.318 
.  320 
.  321 
.  322 

•  323 

•  325 
.  326 


VIII 

PERSONAL   STUDY   OF   THE  PLAYS 


Knowing  one  play  is  knowing 

Shakespeare     ....  329 
Use  of  the  outlines      .        .        .  330 


The  end  of  Shakespeare  study 
The  literature  of  Shakespeare 


330 
331 


Xli  CONTENTS 

APPENDIX 

OUTLINE   QUESTIONS 
I 

PAGE 

The  Winter's  Tale ••«..  gai; 

II 
Romeo  and  Juliet ^6o 

III 
Twelfth  Night ggg 

INDEX ^^ 


WHAT    IS   SHAKESPEARE? 


WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 
I 

What  is  Shakespeare  ?  Why  does  the  world  account 
him  great,  and  put  him  so  generally  at  the  head  of 
all  literary  masters  ?  Most  people,  at  least  such  as 
have  to  do  with  books,  at  some  time  or  other  ask 
themselves  these  questions,  and  often  fail  of  per- 
sonal, satisfying  conclusions.  Men  and  a  Shakespeare 
women  of  liberal  education  for  the  most  Paradox. 
part  understand  Shakespeare's  secret,  having  divined 
it  in  consequence  of  many  years  of  training.  Some 
common  folk  become  his  confident  disciples  without 
such  aid.  But  the  great  majority  of  readers  seem 
not  to  know  what  Shakespeare  is  like,  or  how  a 
maker  of  plays  should  be  held  superior  to  authors 
who  produce  literature  in  a  more  popular  and  availa- 
ble form. 

It  has  been  noted  that  men  will  singly  and  sev- 
erally doubt  upon    occasion   what    they   collectively 
allow.     The    supporters    of   a    party   some    j,^^  ^^jj 
times  vote  for  candidates  that  they  do  not   not  edu- 
individually  approve.      That  people  should   shake-° 
believe   in    Shakespeare   who    are    without   speare's 
knowledge  of  his  quality  is  only  in  seeming 
paradoxical,  and  is  a  thing  incident  to  growing  cul- 
ture.    We  of  the  English-speaking  populations,  who 


2  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE  ? 

claim  Shakespeare  ours,  have  become  the  largest  of 
literary  publics.  We  are  reading  in  the  main  good 
books,  but  have  not  yet  come  into  companionship 
with  the  best.  While  we  are  trying  to  live  up  to 
our  truest  intellectual  light,  we  are  partly  conscious 
of  standards  toward  which  we  are  but  slowly  rising. 
Hence  is  it  that  our  personal  appreciation  of  Shake- 
speare falls  much  below  our  prescriptive  judgments 
concerning  his  place  and  worth.  His  works  stand 
conspicuously  on  our  library  shelves,  yet  of  all  books 
are  approached  perhaps  least  often.  He  is  praised 
loudly  by  many  of  us  who  have  never  studied  so  much 
as  a  single  play,  or  reached  in  any  manner  the  least 
experience  of  his  inspiration.  We  are  sure  that 
Shakespeare  is  wonderful,  yet  we  would  rather  per- 
haps avoid  than  suffer  an  actual  acquaintance  with 
the  proofs.  This  does  not  mean  that  we  are  really 
disingenuous,  or  dissemblers,  but  that  we  have  come  to 
take  Shakespeare  for  granted,  like  many  other  things, 
on  the  testimony  of  those  whose  knowledge  is  expert. 
What  we  may  call  Shakespeare's  public  is  not 
^    ,.  made  up  of  those  who  read  him  discern- 

Readmg 

Shake-         ingly,  and  prize  him,  and  such  others  as  do 
spearedoes  not  read,  yet  praise;  there  are  other  groups 

not  call  for  .  o         i 

new  pro-  and  scctions  of  not  less  interest  and  worth 
cesses  or  ^q  culture.  Many  people  are  vaguely  con- 
scious of  great  truths  in  Shakespeare,  and 
are  almost  in  sight  of  what  they  mean ;  they  feel  the 
influence  of  a  great  presence  that  they  cannot  find. 
Then  there  is  a  large  and  constantly  increasing  class 
of  readers  who  have  right  notions  touching  fellow- 


WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE  ?  3 

ship  with  Shakespeare,  and  are  abundantly  fitted  to 
compass  it,  yet  believe  that  they  could  never,  even 
with  persistent  effort,  rise  to  his  thought.  They 
assume,  of  course  mistakenly,  that  they  would  need 
to  learn  new  processes,  or  be  mentally  reenforced  in 
some  mysterious  way,  to  understand  him.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  are  not  a  few  instructed  people, 
some  of  them  professors  even  in  our  colleges,  who 
affirm  that  there  are  no  marvels  in  Shakespeare  save 
what  his  admirers  read  into  him,  and  that  his  literary 
art  is  but  a  myth.  What  is  worse,  many  of  those 
who  have  been  schooled  concerning  Shakespeare's 
quality  declare  that  they  have  received  no  insight, 
and  do  not  believe  what  they  have  been  taught. 
That  the  last-named  group  should  be  largely  re- 
cruited year  by  year  from  the  graduates  of  our  col- 
leges and  schools  is  not  reassuring,  and  must  be  due 
to  faults  of  pedagogy.  There  is  not  the  slightest 
question  that  Shakespeare's  following  increases  year 
by  year;  the  phenomenal  sale  of  his  editions,  and 
particularly  of  some  recent  ones,  proves  that.  There 
is  small  doubt  that  all  intelligent  and  educated  readers 
will  one  day  know  what  Shakespeare  is,  and  appre- 
ciate him  fully.  But  we  have  clearly  reached  a  stage 
where  the  growth  of  literary  taste  and  wisdom  might 
well  advance  with  considerably  accelerated  speed. 

Undoubtedly  Shakespeare  would  have  much  greater 
currency  to-day,  had  his  works  been  novels  ;  and  this 
author,  were  he  living  now,  would  pretty  surely  write 
stories  instead  of  plays.  But  we  should  not  expect 
Shakespeare  to  produce  fiction  of  mere  incident  or 


4  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

adventure.  He  would  certainly  make  novels  more 
Shake-  nearly  like  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  or  Evan 
speare  Hiirnugto7i,  Or  The  Cossacks,  or  Fathers  and 
day^writt  Children,  than  any  others  that  we  have ; 
novels.  Qj^iy  t}^gy  would  be  more  profound  and  pow- 
erful. It  would  not  be  possible  to  appreciate  such 
books  as  he  would  write  without  some  seriousness  of 
purpose  and  considerable  power  of  literary  apprecia- 
tion. There  would  thus  remain  the  same  difficulty  that 
we  meet  to-day  in  trying  to  read  Shakespeare  as  he  is. 
Those  who  have  the  power  of  literary  appreciation, 
which  is  an  accomplishment  that  can  be  imparted 
as  well  as  learned,  should  be  able  to  read  plays  and 
poetry  and  fiction  with  equal  facility  and  success. 
Many  readers  who  have  this  power  with  novels  find 
themselves  reading  Shakespeare  merely  for  the  story. 
They  do  not  know  how  to  approach  a  play,  and  are 
hindered  from  the  vital  meanings  by  the  form.  In 
order  to  aid  those  who  would  be  glad  to  read  Shake- 
speare and  like  authors  more  confidently  and  com- 
pletely, the  publishers  have  asked  me  to  make  this 
little  book.  I  have  assumed  the  task  reluctantly, 
partly  because  the  attempt  is  no  easy  one,  and  in 
part  from  fear  lest  the  whole  be  held  a  cheapening 
of  Shakespeare's  work.  Of  course  the  great  things 
of  literature  cannot  be  popularised.  They  must  be 
spiritually  discerned,  and  if  not  in  virtual  complete- 
ness, then  not  at  all.  The  plan  here  is  to  reduce 
the  difficulties,  through  making  practicable  units  of 
approach,  yet  leave  the  study  to  be  achieved  wholly 
by  the  reader.     No  one  wishing  to  find  Shakespeare, 


WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE?  5 

and  willing  with  some  patience  to  make  the  search, 
should  fail  of  his  quest. 

The  processes  of  literary  interpretation,  as  has  been 
implied,  are  not  different  in  kind  from  such  as  are 
used  by  the  commonest  people  every  day.  rj.^^  j^^  ^ 
To  interpret  a  novel  is  to  find  the  characters,  pretationof 
the  motives,  the  human  nature  in  it,  just  as  ^p^^* 
we  discover  these  same  things  by  interpreting  the 
faces  and  speech  and  actions  of  the  men  and  women 
that  we  meet  in  outside  life.  It  is  harder  to  inter- 
pret the  marks  of  character  and  passion  in  a  novel 
than  in  real  life,  for  they  are  fewer,  and  far  less 
intense  and  striking.  In  the  text  of  a  play  there  are 
fewer  signs  of  character  and  feeling  than  in  a  novel. 
To  interpret  a  play  we  must  expand  the  situations 
and  dialogue  into  such  phases  and  denominations  of 
life  as  the  novel  uses.  There  is  nothing  in  the  drama, 
or  the  novel,  or  other  forms  of  literature,  that  is  not 
or  may  not  be  met  with  in  the  real  experiences  of 
living.  The  helps  provided  in  this  volume  require 
the  student  to  synthesise  the  whole,  of  which  the 
given  drama  furnishes  but  a  part. 

Not  all  experiences  of  life  are  available  for  Htera- 
ture,  however  veritable  and  approved.  Things  that 
happen  to  everybody  are  not  inspiring,  and  are  not 
generally  used  in  making  plays  and  novels.  Once 
when  the  struggle  for  life  against  outside  foes  was 
fierce,  adventures  and  escapes  were  of  greatest  inter- 
est. Now  that  danger  and  hardship  have  been  essen- 
tially ehminated,  so  that  even  the  unfit  survive,  the 
general  energy  is  no  longer  absorbed  in  a  struggle  for 


6  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

mere  existence.  What  mankind  is  now  in  search  of 
is  new  and  larger  Hving,  a  greater  quantum  and  a 
What  all  higher  quahty  of  existence.  The  multiplied 
men  seek,  serviccs  of  society  bring  larger  comforts,  and 
these  insure,  or  should  insure,  for  those  who  render 
as  well  as  those  who  enjoy  them,  an  ampler  domestic 
and  personal  living.  Moreover,  by  a  marvellous 
system  of  cooperation,  we  are  putting  each  other  in 
possession  of  the  best  that  there  is  in  ourselves  and 
in  humanity  at  large.  In  material  society  there  is 
a  strict  law  of  nieiini  et  tiiiim.  In  the  sphere  of  the 
spiritual  there  are  very  different  postulates  and  prin- 
ciples. Under  civil  order,  whatever  belongings  I 
have  cannot  become  another's  unless  I  resign  them, 
or  unless  they  are  filched  from  me.  But  in  the  spirit- 
ual commonwealth  there  are  no  statutes  of  exclusion; 
we  may  covet  what  gifts  and  accomplishments  we 
will.  The  worth  that  is  in  my  neighbour's  character 
may  become  mine,  if  I  hunger  and  thirst  for  it,  and  it 
will  remain  no  less  his  for  enabling  the  like  in  me. 
An  act  of  heroism  that  I  would  emulate  becomes 
potentially  my  own ;  I  rise  by  it  to  the  level  of  the 
superior  mind  that  conceived  and  compassed  it.  I 
care  little  for  mediocre  acts  and  thoughts  of  people, 
but  the  select  sayings  and  inspiration,  the  unique 
goodness  and  worth  of  the  world,  I  would  have  con- 
tinually before  me.  The  treasured  form  of  such 
ideas  and  sentiments  and  achievements  we  call  Litera- 
ture. It  perpetuates  the  best  that  men  have  found  in 
the  truest  and  noblest  experiences  of  living.  To  be 
prepared  to  live,  one  must  have  been  provided  with 


WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE?  7 

the  best  and  truest  living  attained  or  attainable  hith- 
erto.     Literature  is  an  institutional   device  tq  ^e  ed- 
by  which    society  administers   to  itself    its   "cated  is 
gains  and   discoveries   of   finest   sentiment  lifeofthe 
and  sublimest  thinking.     To  be  educated  is  p^^^- 
to  be  provided  for  living  by  acquaintance  with  the 
best  Hfe  of  the  past ;  and  this  is  available  nowhere 
but  in  the  thoughts  and  experiences  that  great  men 
have  bequeathed  to  us.     It  is  the  right,  and  should  be 
the  privilege,  of  those  who  come  after  to  be  equipped 
with  the  sum  of  what  life  has  meant  to  the  best  who 
have  lived  before. 

Shakespeare  is  useful  to  the  world,  and  has  come 
to  be  prized  by  wise  men  of  all  lands,  because  he  was 
possessed  of  a  profounder  and  completer  knowledge 
of   life  than  any  author  of  books   besides,   what 
He  can  thus  supply  to  us  experiences  that  shake- 

,         1  ,  ,  .  .  T  T       •       speare  can 

we  should  never  otherwise  attani.  He  is  supply  to 
capable  of  inspiring  and  enlightening  us  '"^"• 
more  abundantly  than  his  rivals  are,  for  the  reason 
that  he  seems  to  have  been  acquainted  with  nobleness 
and  worth  in  degree  and  variety  beyond  what  other 
minds  have  known.  It  will  not  be  easy  to  find  Shake- 
speare except  by  discovering  these  qualities  in  his 
work.  It  will  be  of  small  profit  to  affirm  that 
Shakespeare  is  this  or  this,  that  his  moral  attitude 
must  have  been  such  and  such,  if  Shakespeare  be 
not  himself  revealed  and  discerned,  beyond  his 
authorship,  much  as  if  he  were  living  among  us 
to-day.  We  have  perhaps  heard  famous  lecturers 
discourse  patiently  and  eloquently  to  the  effect  that 


8  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

Shakespeare  is  the  greatest  genius  in  all  letters,  that 
he  has  more  imagination,  that  he  employs  more  art, 
that  he  achieves  more  control  over  human  sympathies 
Shake-  than  any  other  sage  or  poet.  But  all  this 
speare,  not  h^s  not  brought  US  One  whit  nearer  acquaint- 
by  abstrac-  ance  with  the  man,  or  with  his  mind  and 
tions.  power.     We  cannot  be  won  to  the  apprecia- 

tion or  discipleship  of  Shakespeare  by  abstractions. 
We  have  not  so  learned  our  mothers,  or  the  men  and 
women  whose  lives  have  made  us  what  we  are. 

It  is  therefore  the  purpose  here  to  take  some  play 
or  plays,  such  as  our  mentors  must  have  had  in  mind, 
when  they  tried  to  administer  Shakespeare  to  us,  and 
test  their  spirit  and  purport  just  as  if  they  had  been 
written  in  the  shape  of  novels,  and  by  some  modern 
master.  We  should  choose  creations  that  he  put  his 
heart  into,  and  produced  at  times  when  he  had  least 
reason  to  exploit  his  gifts.  What  he  makes  the  bur- 
den unequivocally  of  these  plays,  or  any  number  of 
Plays  that  them,  will  presumably  be  something  that  he 
Shake-        cares  much  for,  or  feels  convinced  of  deeply, 

speare  put  .  r  y ' 

his  heart  and  will  perhaps  stand  as  an  expression  of 
'n<o-  what  he  would  have  Hfe  be  or  mean.    Among 

such  plays  would,  of  course,  be  Cymbcline,  and  this  it 
is  proposed,  first  of  all,  to  examine  with  some  care. 
Incidentally,  as  we  follow  the  chief  meanings,  we 
shall  do  well  to  watch  for  modes  and  devices  by  which 
these  are  severally  administered,  — that  is,  for  Shake- 
speare's art,  if  there  is  any.  In  general,  it  will  be 
requisite  that  we  read  each  scene,  in  advance  of  treat- 
ment, and  keep  the  open  text  at  hand. 


I 


II 

CYMBELINE 
Act  I 

SCENE   I 

It  will  be  well  to  have  in  mind  at  the  beginning  that 
Cymbeline  is  a  British  play,  laid  in  pre-Christian  times, 
and  that  the  piece  was  not  composed  for  the  sake 
of  King  Cymbehne,  the  title  character,  but  of  his 
daughter  Imogen.  The  opening  lines  are  devoted  to 
explaining  who  Imogen  is,  and  making  us  acquainted 
with  the  circumstances  under  which  she  is  to  appear. 
In  a  drama  everything  that  we  need  to  know  must  be 
communicated  to  us  incidentally,  through  the  talk  of 
certain  characters,  since  the  author  cannot,  .,      ,., 

'  '    Use  of  the 

as  in  most  other  kinds  of  literature,  tell  us  two  Gentie- 
anything  directly.  The  device  here  is  to  '"^"' 
bring  forward  a  *  Second  Gentleman,'  newly  arrived 
at  the  palace,  and  have  him  apprised  in  our  hearing, 
by  the  *  First  Gentleman,'  as  to  what  is  going  on  at 
court.  The  First  Gentleman  is  ostensibly  attached 
to  the  King's  household,  but  really  has  been  created, 
along  with  his  companion,  on  purpose  to  give  us  this 
information.  Neither  of  them  is  needed  afterward 
or  appears  again. 

The  first  sixty-nine  lines  thus  serve  as  a  sort  of  in- 
troduction to  the  play.  Throughout  the  dialogue  of 
the  two  Gentlemen  the  author  is  evidently  at  pains  to 

9 


10  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

justify  Imogen,  by  praises  of  Posthumiis  and  of  his 
family,  for  taking  a  husband  so  far  beneath  her  rank. 
He  now  brings  in  his  heroine.  Her  secret  marriage 
with  Posthumus  has  just  been  confessed  to,  and  great 
is  the  commotion  that  it  arouses.  All  the  courtiers  look 
displeased,  while  they  inwardly  rejoice  that  Imogen 
has  rescued  herself,  for  the  time  being,  from  the 
Queen's  scheming.  The  King  has  wrathfully  ban- 
ished the  husband,  and  ordered  the  bride  to  prison. 
The  Queen  ostensibly  interposes  in  her  stepdaughter's 
behalf,  gives  her  the  freedom  of  the  palace,  and  pro- 
poses even  to  allow  the  lovers  a  leave-taking.  But 
her  falseness  is  wholly  transparent  —  almost,  indeed, 
ironical,  as  (11.  70-79)  her  first  words  show  :  — 

No,  be  assur'd  you  shall  not  find  me,  daughter, 
After  the  slander  of  most  stepmothers, 
Evil-ey'd  unto  you  ;   you're  my  prisoner,  but 
Your  gaoler  shall  deliver  you  the  keys 
That  lock  up  your  restraint.  —  For  you,  Posthumus, 
So  soon  as  I  can  win  the  offended  King, 
I  will  be  known  your  advocate.     Marry,  yet 
The  fire  of  rage  is  in  him,  and  'twere  good 
You  lean'd  unto  his  sentence  with  what  patience 
Your  wisdom  may  inform  you. 

The  reason  of  the  Queen's  suggestion  to  Posthumus, 
that  he  lean  unto  his  sentence,  is  perhaps  some  fear 
lest  he  linger  about  the  capitol  disguised,  and  con- 
tinue his  witchcraft  over  her  prisoner.  Posthumus 
somewhat  nervously,  as  if  he  had  no  rights  or  wish 
but  the  Queen's  will,  and  without  waiting  for  the 
least  sign  or  word  from  Imogen,  as  to  when  or  how 


CYMBELINE   I.  i  II 

she  may  best  bear  the  shock  of  parting,  declares  that 
he  will  hence  to-day.  Have  we  assumed  that  she  is  un- 
nerved, prostrated,  crushed  ?  Let  us  hear  (11.  84-88) 
her  speak. 

Dissembling  courtesy  !     How  fine  this  tyrant 

Can  tickle  where  she  wounds !     My  dearest  husband, 

I  something  fear  my  father's  wrath,  but  nothing  — 

Always  reserv'd  my  holy  duty  —  what 

His  rage  can  do  on  me.      Von  must  be  gone. 

The  divinest  thing  in  the  world  is  the  repose,  the 
spiritual  sufficiency  which  can  forestall  all  the  effect 
of  wickedness  and  weakness.  Lofty  indeed  The  repose 
and  strong  must  be  the  mind  of  a  princess  °^  Imogen, 
whom,  at  such  a  moment,  the  pretended,  exasperating 
considerateness  of  the  Queen  cannot  disturb.  She  is 
able  even  to  remark  the  effrontery  of  her  inexorable 
tormentor  who,  '  so  soon  as  she  can  win  the  offended 
King,  will  begin  to  plead  for  the  return  of  the  exile.' 
Most  Imogens  would  have  been  upset  to  the  point  of 
prostration  over  that.  We  note,  too,  the  dignity  with 
which  this  bride  of  a  week  administers  her  affliction 
to  herself  by  sending  her  husband  away  thus  for  his 
sake,  his  safety,  'not  comforted  to  live  save  that  there  is 
left  somewhere  in  the  world  the  jewel  that  she  perhaps 
may  one  day  see  again.'  Not  very  ample  consolation 
surely.  But  Imogen  is  content  with  what  would  break 
the  hearts  of  most  of  her  sex.  There  is  no  outcry,  no 
swooning ;  there  is  but  the  putting  of  arms  about  her 
husband's  neck,  and  the  coming,  now,  of  quiet  tears. 
She  would  not  else  be  woman, 


12  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

Posthumus  does  not  shine  in  comparison,  though 
he  is  weak  but  relatively.  He  seems  not  to  under- 
Posthu-  stand  what  moment  has  come  to  him,  or  how 
musweak     ^         ^^  ^^^^  ^^  should  uow  be  to  her  who 

but  rela- 
tively, needs  him  and  for  the  instant  leans  upon  him. 

He  should  stand  like  a  rock  beneath  her.  He  should 
contribute  to  her  feminine  sufficiency  all  his  manly 
strength.  He  should  be  ready  to  stay  by  her,  should 
she  so  will,  forever.  But  he  is  ill  at  ease,  and  talks 
quite  otherwise  than  in  a  sustaining  way,  while  Imo- 
gen in  silence  hangs  about  him. 

The  Queen  now  enters,  on  purpose  probably  to 
interrupt  the  lovers,  and  prevent  any  plans  they  may 
be  making  for  fidelity  from  becoming  too  complete. 
The  sight  of  Posthumus  half  trying  to  get  free  from 
Imogen,  who  does  not  stir  at  the  intrusion,  seemingly 
resolves  her  to  bring  the  King  in  to  see  the  spectacle. 
Posthumus  is  disquieted  more  than  ever,  and  attempts 
to  release  himself  with  a  commonplace  adieu.  Imo- 
gen, beautifully  detaining  him,  misses  nothing  from 
his  fervour,  and  appears  not  to  notice  his  unrest.  This 
Imogen  parting  is  of  infinite  concern  to  her,  and  she 
sdous'  ^^^  prepared  for  it.  She  takes  from  her 
of  her  bosom  a  resplendent  ring,  one  of  the  royal 

jewels,  worn  at  some  time  by  her  mother, 
though  never,  we  may  be  sure,  by  her.  It  will  make 
Posthumus  conspicuous  to  wear  it.  It  may  endanger 
his  safety,  in  exile,  to  be  the  owner  of  it ;  for,  as  a 
rule,  only  princes,  in  guarded  palaces,  display  such 
treasures.  But  Imogen  does  not  consider  the  ring  too 
precious  for  a  parting  gift,  or  think  it  incongruous 


CYMBELINE  I.  i  1 3 

that  Posthumus  should  possess  it.  She  does  not  re- 
member that  her  mother  was  a  queen,  or  that  Posthu- 
mus has  not  yet  been  made  a  lord,  or  indeed  a  knight. 
Posthumus  knows  his  bride's  mind  too  well  to  ven- 
ture any  protest.  Now  comes  his  turn.  He  has  but 
an  uncostly  bracelet,  which  he  knows  Imogen  so  little 
as  fairly  to  be  ashamed  of  leaving  with  her  as  a  keep- 
sake. But  he  does  recognise  (11.  1 18-123)  his  false 
position  in  being  the  lover  of  the  royal  heir. 

And,  sweetest,  fairest. 
As  I  my  poor  self  did  exchange  for  you. 
To  your  so  infinite  loss,  so  in  our  trifles 
I  still  win  of  you.     For  my  sake  wear  this  ; 
It  is  a  manacle  of  love.     I'll  place  it 
Upon  this  fairest  prisoner. 

There  is  a  very  palpable  difference  between  the  tone 
of  his  utterances  and  of  hers,  and  a  difference  surely 
not  to  his  advantage.     But  we  can  understand  how 
she  has  come  to  see  in  him  her  hero.  Imogen   Imogen 
realises  that  the  moment  of  parting  has  been   not  of  a 
reached.    Most  feminine  minds  would  now  be  imagina- 
quickened  to  some  degree  of  prophetic  pene-  ^'°"- 
tration ;  but  she  has  neither  golden  hopes  of  reunion 
nor   forebodings  of    long  or  final   separation.       Her 
mind  is   not   vividly  or    diviningly  imaginative,   but 
must   work  in    a    matter-of-fact   way  from    absolute 
materials  or  conditions  given.     She  will  not  be  good 
at  guessing  riddles.     The  future  is  to  her  not  dark, 
but  merely  hidden. 

The  scene  is  laid,  according  to  the  heading  in  our 
texts,  in  the  garden  of  the  King's  palace,  though  the 


14  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

first  printed  copies  do  not  say  so.  The  First  Folio  no- 
wh  the  where  sets  the  scenes.  But  there  is  no  ques- 
sceneiaid  tion  that  the  iimendment  is  correct.  The 
inagarden.  g^^^g^^  f^^.  instance,  tells  us  (11.  103,  104)1 
that  she  will  move  the  King  '  to  walk  this  way,'  which 
was  evidently  not  along  the  corridors,  or  through  rooms, 
inside.  It  thus  appears  that  the  Queen  has  arranged 
for  the  lovers  a  meeting-place  commanded  by  the  pal- 
ace windows,  so  as  to  deny  them  privacy ;  or,  rather, 
that  Shakespeare,  back  of  the  Queen,  ordains  the 
situation  in  order  that  the  King  and  his  lords  may 
have  an  opportunity  to  surprise  the  pair.  This 
now  they  do,  apparently,  by  coming  up  with  stealthy 
steps.  Posthumus  leaps  aside,  though  Imogen  is  un- 
moved ;  while  the  King  rages,  and  with  threatening 
gestures  pursues  Posthumus. 

Posthumus  has  certainly  no  ill-will  toward  any- 
body ;  he  blesses  the  '  good  remainders '  of  the 
Imogen's  court.  He  has  small  reason ;  for  he  must 
absolute  know  that  the  Queen  will  attempt  even  yet 
'  to  bring  about  the  marriage  of  Imogen  with 
Cloten,  and  that  the  King  will  never  countenance  him, 
under  present  domestic  conditions,  as  a  son-in-law. 
He  hastens  away,  perhaps  for  the  King's  comfort, 
perhaps  also  for  his  own,  and  forgets  the  word  of 
farewell  to  Imogen  that  he  had  hoped  to  say  again. 
Imogen  makes  no  outcry,  feels  no  approach  of  swoon- 
ing, and  is  not  tempted  to  indulge  herself  in  any  mar- 
tyrdom.    In  absolute  self-control  she  bears  her  pain, 

1  Line  references  here,  and  throughout,  are  to  the  numberings  of 
the  Globe  Shakespeare  text. 


CYMBELINE   I.  i  I  5 

and  still  has  strength  to  recognise  that  the  sternest 
experiences  of  life  are  now  upon  her.  Does  the 
King  hear  her  words  ?  It  seems  not  so.  Imogen  has 
no  wish  to  enhance  his  passion,  or  betray  how  deeply 
his  punishment  afflicts  her.  Cymbeline,  shaking  with 
wrath,  taunts  her  for  disloyalty  to  his  wishes,  Imo- 
gen's perfect  self-command  is  again  exhibited.  Over 
love  matters  it  is  not  difificult  for  daughters  to  bandy 
words  with  irate  sires.  Imogen  has  no  insolent  or 
saucy  phrases ;  and  with  a  royal  dignity  that  her  father 
lacks  begs  him  to  shun  the  risk  of  mortal  injury  that 
excitement,  at  his  years,  may  bring  Even  in  his 
dotard  devotion  to  the  adventuress,  who  has  alienated 
all  the  love  he  once  bore  to  his  daughter,  she  would 
guard  him  tenderly, 

Cymbeline  now  betrays  the  degree  (1.  138)  to  which 
his  designing  helpmeet  has  assumed  control  over  his 
mind. 

That  mightst  have  had  the  sole  son  of  my  Queen ! 

The  implication  that,  were  there  other  sons,  any  one 
of  them  would  have  been  an  enviable  match  for  her, 
is  exasperating  enough.  But  Imogen  will  not  lose 
her  temper,  Posthumus's  blood  of  course  is  as  good 
as  the  Queen's  son's,  Cymbeline  accuses  her  of  in- 
tending to  make  Posthumus  his  successor  :  — 

Thou  took'st  a  beggar,  wouldst  have  made  my  throne 
A  seat  for  baseness. 

Imogen  does  not  deny  that  she  is  willing  to  see 
that  outcome :  '  No ;  I  rather  added  a  lustre  to  it,' 
When    Cymbeline    retorts  that   she  is  '  vile,'  or  '  of 


l6  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

low  tastes,'  Imogen  has  yet  the  grace  (11.  143-147) 
to  answer  quietly,  and  according  to  the  verities,  — 

Sir, 
It  is  your  fault  that  I  have  loved  Posthumus ; 
You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow,  and  he  is 
A  man  worth  any  woman,  overbuys  me 
Almost  the  sum  he  pays. 

To  affirm  that  Posthumus  has  thrown  away  on  her, 
the  heir  of  all  Britain,  almost  the  whole  of  the  pur- 
chase price,  himself,  who  holds  not  so  much  as  a 
foot  of  fief,  is  democratic  and  revolutionary  enough 
to  give  the  King  a  palsy.  But  he  seems  to  be  even 
,         .       parting  with   his  violence  under  the  influ- 

Imogen  s       ^  o 

clear  see-  eucc  of  Imogen's  firm  looks  and  will.  The 
'"^'  absurd  doctrine  of  the   present  court,  that 

rank  makes  worth,  and  that  Cloten  may  claim  fitness 
for  kingship  on  no  sounder  pretensions,  forces  her 
(11.  148-150)  to  a  protest,  which,  nevertheless,  she 
makes  meekly  personal,  and  not  critical  or  denuncia- 
tory :  — 

Would  I  were 
A  neat-herd's  daughter,  and  my  Leonatus 
Our  neighbour  shepherd's  son  ! 

There  is  hope  surely  for  the  race  when  women, 
born  in  kings'  houses,  and  bred  to  luxury,  see  with 
such  clearness,  and  stand  for  truth  like  that. 

Pisanio,  servant  of  Posthumus  hitherto,  now  enters. 
His  face  shows  concern,  and  the  Queen  seems  to 
presume  that  he  has  news  of  interest  to  herself. 
And  she  is  not  wrong.  As  Posthumus  went  out  from 
the  palace  garden,  the    Queen's    son,   Cloten,  must 


CYMBELINE   I.  I  1 7 

needs  make  an  insolent,  cowardly  thrust  upon  him 
with  his  rapier,  an  instrument  that  Cloten 

^       '  Cloten's 

handles  none  too  well.     But  he  has  assaulted  assault 
a  master  of  that  weapon  ;  whereat  Posthu-  ^p°"  ^°^" 

'■      _  thumus. 

mus,  good-naturedly,  gives  Cloten  a  few 
lively  bouts  for  exercise.  Gentlemen  of  the  court, 
after  a  little  enjoyment  of  the  fun,  with  sober  faces, 
have  seen  to  it  that  Cloten  receives  no  severe  pun- 
ishment for  his  folly,  and  have  stopped  the  scan- 
dal. Imogen's  amused  contempt  at  the  affront  is 
said  aloud  :  '  If  your  son  were  not  under  the  protec- 
tion of  my  father,  he  would  not  have  escaped  so 
comfortably.  I  wish  that  the  two  swordsmen  were 
where  they  could  not  be  parted,  that  I  might  hold 
them  to  an  issue.*  Imogen  is  not  shocked  at  the 
idea  of  Cloten's  getting  the  reward  of  his  villany ; 
she  belongs  to  a  duelling  generation.  But  no  woman 
has  yet  been  born,  having  a  husband  of  Posthumus's 
worth,  but  would  be  proud  of  his  strong  arm  too. 
The  Queen,  until  the  outcome  has  been  told,  is  evi- 
dently in  a  scare.  Pisanio,  now  complimented  in- 
sincerely by  the  Queen  for  past  fidelity,  is  ^,j^^j  j,^^ 
made  to  understand  that  he  shall  be  con-  Queen 
tinned  in  service  to  Imogen.  The  Queen  P"""?"^*^^- 
proposes,  by  taking  Imogen's  part  against  the  King, 
and  by  plying  her  with  pretentious  kindnesses,  like 
this  one,  to  persuade  her  to  an  annulment  of  her 
marriage ;  and  she  sends  Pisanio  out  that  she  even 
now  may  employ  the  time.  Imogen,  who  has  given 
audiences  before,  and  knows  how  long  the  Queen's 
reasons  will  hold  out,  tells  Pisanio,  in  the  Queen's 
c 


l8  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

hearing,  when  he  shall  return.  Thus  has  the  author 
indicated  to  us  to  what"  extent  Imogen  is  to  be  so- 
licited, on  this  day  of  days,  with  her  husband  not 
yet  gone,  to  wed  his  rival.  With  this,  the  scene  in 
the  palace  garden,  in  which  so  much  concerning  the 
King's  court,  and  of  those  who  live  there,  has  been 
revealed,  is  rounded  to  a  close. 

SCENE   II 

■  The  author  of  course  made  Cloten  assault  Pos- 
thumus,  in  the  first  scene,  in  order  to  set  our  feelings 
against  him  in  advance.  Cloten  is  to  suffer  a  hard 
fate,  and  we  are  not  to  care.  The  treatment  before 
us  will  not  call  for  much  penetration,  or  reading 
between  the  lines.  When  we  have  learned  the  Eliza- 
bethan terms  and  turns  completely,  the  purport  of 
the  whole  will  be  potentially  in  reach.  The  dialogue 
is  in  prose,  the  subject  not  warranting  the  metric 
form.  Cloten  has  just  been  rescued  from  the  fenc- 
ing-bout, and  is  shown  in  a  state  of  perspiration  that 
little  suits  with  a  gentleman  of  his  cloth.  Posthumus 
has  just  disappeared  from  the  scene ;  and  the  two 
Lords,  who  have  posed  in  the  affair  as  Cloten's 
seconds,  are  covering  his  disgrace  with  obsequious 
attentions. 

Shakespeare's  purpose  in  this  situation  is  obviously 
to  enact  to  us  the  degree  of  Cloten's  imbecility.  The 
The  sense-  ^ellow  probably  suspects  that  all  has  not 
lessnessof    gone  cxactly  well  with  him,  but  the  First 

Cloten.  -        J 

Lord    actually    flatters    him    into   thinking 
that  he  has  covered  himself  with  glory.     The  Second 


CYMBELINE  I.  m  1 9 

Lord  deepens  the  effect,  somewhat  awkwardly,  it 
must  be  owned,  by  his  sarcastic  asides,  through 
which  his  surcharged  soul  has  vent.  Cloten's  conceit 
of  greatness,  since  his  mother  married  with  the  King, 
excludes  all  peers,  all  potentates  from  rivalry  with 
himself.  The  Second  Lord,  seemingly  for  pity,  —  or 
is  it  conscience .-'  —  will  contribute  no  word  of  praise  or 
flattery  to  feed  his  pride.  Only  at  the  end  does  he 
venture  speech,  when  Cloten  insists  that  his  friends 
shall  not  'attend,'  but  walk  abreast  with  him. 

Evidently  Shakespeare  is  not  yet  fully  at  work. 
Neither  in  this  scene  nor  in  the  preceding  does  his 
hand  suggest  the  cunning  that  it  has  known  in  most 
earlier  plays.  Particularly  this  plan  of  character 
contrasts,  which  presents  first  a  scene  of  Imogen, 
and  then  of  Cloten,  and  then  of  Imogen  again,  is 
unexampled  in  all  his  work  elsewhere. 

SCENE  ni 

Pisanio  has  come  back  from  the  harbour,  where  he 
saw  Posthumus  embark,  and  sail  out  into  the  offing. 
Imogen  has  been  Hstening  spell-bound  to  his  report. 
The  peculiar  objectiveness  of  her  mind  is  evident  in 
the  conception  of  Pisanio  as  becoming  a  fixture  by 
the  shore,  and  interrogating  every  sail,  whether 
it  have  tidings  from  the  exiled  one.  Then 
the  very  words  last  spoken  are  asked  for,  tiveness  of 
and  the  last  gesture.     Thus  does  the  imagi-  Imogen's 

1  •        ir  •       1       mind. 

nation  of   Imogen  employ  itself,  gropingly 

and  almost  blindly,  among  details,  having  no  wing 

for  flight.     The  mention  of  the  senseless  linen  that  he 


20  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

kissed,  when  her  own  lips  might  have  contributed 
the  responsiveness  that  it  lacked,  irks  her  with  the 
thought  of  loss.  Then  sets  in  the  conviction  that 
there  must  have  been  something  yet  to  do,  which  she 
had  surely  added,  could  she  have  been  there  in 
Pisanio's  stead,  —  a  sentiment  beautiful,  in  this  mo- 
ment of  desolation,  even  to  pathos.  Here  is  a  bride, 
surely  not  of  sympathy  or  affection  merely,  but  of 
deeds  (11.  14-21):  — 

Imogen.  Thou  shouldst  have  made  him 

As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 

Pisanio.  Madam,  so  I  did. 

Imogen.     I  would  have  broke  mine  eye-strings,  crack'd 
them  but 
To  look  upon  him,  till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle,  — 
Nay,  foUow'd  him  till  he  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air, — 

*  and  then,  only,  when  there  was  nothing  more  of  devo- 
tion to  be  rendered,  I  would  have  turned  mine  eye 
and  wept ! '  Yet  this  devotion  costs  Imogen  no  regret 
or  consciousness  of  sacrifice.  Her  joy  is  not  in  her- 
self, and  she  is  unaware  how  centrifugal  is  her  living. 
Posthumus  cannot  forget  that  he  has  wedded  a 
princess,  though  he  is  not  without  knowledge  of  her 
Posthu-  worth.  There  is  somewhat  of  the  romantic 
mamic°  in  his  temperament,  while  of  that  quality 
nature.  Imogen  conspicuously  lacks.  She  is  liter- 
ally to  him  his  queen,  and  he  seems  {cf.  1.  5  above, 
and  i.  92,  99)  always  to  call  her  so.  His  brain  is  full 
of  her  social  eminence,  and  of  the  glamour  which,  to 


CYMBELINE  I.  ill  21 

him,  surrounds  her  goings.  But  Imogen,  on  the  con- 
trary, discerns  all  the  hollowness  of  court  magnifi- 
cence. Her  thoughts  are  not  of  the  crown,  rightfully 
hers,  but  of  her  needle,  and  this  we  may  be  sure  {cf. 
1.  19,  and  i.  168)  is  at  no  time  long  absent  from  her 
hand. 

Imogen  has  been  well  revealed  before,  in  kind ; 
plainly  this  scene  is  to  paint  her  to  us  in  degree. 
Pisanio,  conceived  apparently,  for  better  sus-  Imogen  at- 
tainment of  the  proprieties,  as  of  at  least  ways  wifely. 
twice  her  years,  is  one  to  whom  she  may  talk  about 
Posthumus ;  and  by  way  of  him  she  is  made  to  exhibit 
something  of  the  purity  and  beauty  of  her  spirit. 
While  she  cannot  in  visions  follow  her  lover  to  Italy, 
she  can  appoint  periods  each  day  sacred  to  thoughts 
of  him.  So  shall  she  yet  have  cares,  with  Posthumus 
absent,  quite  as  were  they  not  divided,  and  she  had 
been  his  homekeeper.  Noon,  midnight,  and  the  sixth 
hour  of  morn  shall  she  be  in  heaven  for  him.  Mani- 
festly there  shall  not  be  much  time  for  empty  living, 
nor  indeed  for  sleep.  Then,  that  we  may  hear  more, 
she  is  made  to  tell  Pisanio  of  her  incomplete  leave- 
taking,  —  how  she  had  contrived  two  words  which 
she  was  to  have  administered  as  a  charm,  with  her 
kiss  between;  but  (11.  35-37)  then  — 

comes  in  my  father 
And,  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north, 
Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. 

Withal,  the  whole  is  told  in  no  dialect  of  silliness,  but 
in  serious  and  lofty-minded  diction. 


22  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

The  pretty  story  stops,  for  Imogen  is  sent  for. 
Two  interviews  with  the  Queen  in  one  day ;  we  know 
for  what. 

SCENE   IV 

The  scene  now  shifts  to    Italy,     Posthumus   has 

been  made  to  tell  {cf.  i.  97,  98)  that  his  exile  will  be 

spent  in  Rome,  at  the  house  of  his  father's 

must^pro-     friend  Philario.     To  provide  him  honourable 

vide  for       entertainment,  Shakespeare  but  makes  Phi- 

Postliu-  .  ....  /     /.     . 

inus  an        lario  to  have  been  under  obngations  \cj.  1. 
honourable  29-33)  to   Sicilius  in  Certain  Roman  wars. 

asylum.  .  -n.  -i      •    . 

The  conversation  among  Philano  s  guests 
is  of  Posthumus,  who  has  arrived  but  lately.  It  is 
known  that  he  has  married  a  king's  daughter  and 
been  exiled  for  it ;  and  these  facts  are  regarded, 
not  unnaturally,  as  discreditable  to  him  as  well  as 
her.  The  Dutchman  and  the  Spaniard  are  too 
slow  of  speech  and  mind  to  join  in  the  dialogue, 
but  we  may  safely  account  them  not  more  charita- 
ble than  the  others.  Philario  feels  it  necessary  to 
warn  the  company,  as  Posthumus  comes  in,  against 
incivility  to  his  friend.  The  Frenchman  at  once 
presents  him  eminence,  both  with  eye  and  tongue, 
while  lachimo  lies  in  wait.  After  half  a  dozen  para- 
graphs comes  (1.  56)  his  opportunity  :  — 

lachimo.  Can  we,  with  manners,  ask  what  was 
the  difference? 

Frenchman.  '  Safely,  I  think.  It  was  a  conten- 
tion in  public,  which  will,  without  gainsaying,  bear 
being  reported.  It  was  much  like  the  dispute  that 
was  precipitated  last  night,  when  we  fell  to  praising 


CYMBELINE  I.  iv  23 

the  sweethearts  of  our  respective  countries;  this 
gentleman  at  that  time  vouching, — and  by  an  affir- 
mation he  would  stand  to  with  his  sword,  his  to  be 
fairer,  more  virtuous,  wiser,  more  chaste,  better  pro- 
vided with  the  quality  of  constancy,  and  less  tempta- 
ble  than  any  rarest  of  our  ladies  in  France.' 

This  foolish  praise  was  uttered,  years  before,  in 
earliest  foreign  travel.  The  author  thinks  too  much 
of  his  heroine  to  give  her  a  husband  who  would  say 
it  now.  But  the  occasion  is  sufficient  for  lachimo ; 
he  thus  administers  the  first  stroke  of  his  Machiavel- 
lian craft : — 

That   lady  is  not    now  living,  or  the   gentleman's 
opinion  by  this  worn  out. 

Posthumus,  as  we  should  judge  to-day,  was  under 
no  obhgation  so  strong  as  to  hold  his  peace,  and  keep 
his  wife's  honour  from  being  bandied  about  in  such  a 
company.  But  Posthumus  feels  that  he  must  vindi- 
cate the  integrity  of  his  lady  at  any  cost  to  him  or 
her.  Such  was  the  sentiment  of  the  old  chivalry,  not 
yet  dead  in  Shakespeare's  times.  He  answers 
stiffly,  — 

She  holds  her  virtue  still,  and  I  my  mind. 

Posthumus,  from   now  on,  is   easy    game.     Some 
good  angel  should  have  warned  him  against  conten- 
tion with  one  of  lago's  breed.     He  thinks  he   posthu- 
is  dealing  forbearingly  with  an  honest  man.    "^"^ "» 

T      ,  .  •„  11  11-  1         "latch  for 

lachimo  will  need  but  to  goad  him  gently,   the  wily 
to  make  him  lose  his  head,  and  bring  him   Italian. 
under   full    control ;    and   this    will  his    pursuer  do, 
though  we  cannot  yet  see  why.     What  Briton  could 
have  detected  the  strategy  in  this  rejoinder  } 


24  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

You  must  not  so  far  prefer  her  fore  ours  of  Italy, 

Posthumus  has  not  said  anything  about  the  young 
women  of  Italy,  but  of  course  cannot  remember  his 
words  exactly.  He  is  not  combative,  and  tries  to 
withdraw  with  a  general  remark,  which,  under  right 
circumstances,  would  have  left  all  well.     But  lachimo 

will  not  have  it  so.  He  has  caught  sight  of 
wluhrve  the  ring  on  Posthumus's  finger,  and  prob- 
the Queen's  g^j^jy  recogniscs  that  this  untitled  and  por- 

tionless  bridegroom  can  have  come  by  it  only 
through  his  marriage  with  a  king's  daughter.  lach- 
imo will  have  the  Queen's  jewel,  and  make  a  guy  of 
Posthumus  besides. 

'As  fair  and  as  good  —  a  kind  of  poised  com- 
parison —  had  been  something  /oo  fair  and  ioo  good 
for  any  lady  in  Britain.  If  she  went  before  others 
I  have  seen,  as  that  diamond  of  yours  outlustres  many 
I  have  beheld,  I  could  not  but  believe  she  excelled 
many;  but  I  have  not  seen  the  most  precious  dia- 
mond that  is,  nor  you  the  lady.' 

lachimo  very  deftly  covers  his  interest  in  the  ring, 
which  he  implies  he  has  seen  surpassed  in  brilliancy. 
He  has  not  aroused  Posthumus  by  the  animus  made 
so  plain  in  his  last  utterance.  He  now  (1.  94)  tries 
sarcasm :  — 

Which  the  gods  have  given  yott  ? 

But  even  this  taunt  fails  to  exasperate  the  fiefless  and 
homeless  wanderer.  lachimo  follows  with  an  insinu- 
ation :  — 

You  may  wear  her  in  title  yours,  — 

at  which  Posthumus  very  neatly  turns  his  flank :  — 


CYMBELINE   I.  iv  2$ 

'  Your  Italy  contains  no  so  accomplished  a  courtier 
to  vanquish  the  honour  of  my  mistress,  if,  in  the  hold- 
ing or  loss  of  //^rt/,  you  term  her  frail.  I  do  nothing 
doubt  you  have  store  of  thieves;  notwithstanding, 
I  fear  not  for  my  ring.' 

Philario  attempts  now  to  stop  the  dialogue.  He 
understands  of  course  what  lachimo  is  about,  and  is 
bound  to  protect  his  guest.  Posthumus  ventures 
some  pungent  comments  on  lachimo's  manners, 
which,  were  he  not  shameless,  would  silence  him. 
But  the  fellow,  lago-like,  makes  an  advantage  out  of 
the  rebuff :  — 

■v  Posthumus.     'This  worthy  signior  —  I  am  much 

obliged  to  him  —  is  not  at  all  inclined  to  be  formal 
with  me :  we  have  been  familiar  from  the  very  first 
moment.' 

lachimo.  '  With  five  times  so  much  conversation,  I 
should  get  ground  of  your  fair  mistress,  make  her 
retreat,  even  to  the  surrender,  had  I  admittance 
and  opportunity  as  a  help.' 

Posthutniis.     No,  no. 

lachitno.  I  dare  thereupon  pawn  the  moiety  of 
my  estate  to  your  ring,  which,  in  my  opinion,  o'er- 
values  it  something. 

We  see  that  the  ring  has  considerably  appreciated, 
since  lachimo's  first  mention  of  it.  He  needs  to 
flatter  Posthumus  now.  On  his  outrageous  preten- 
sions of  being  a  lady-killer,  Posthumus,  in  chivalrous 
and  indignant  defence  of  the  sex  he  is  slandering, 
reads  him  a  pretty  vigorous  lesson :  — 

Posthumus.  'You  are  greatly  deceived  in  allow- 
ing yourself  to  believe  any  such  thing;  and  I  don't 
doubt  you  are  habitually  sustaining  what  you  de- 
serve by  your  attempts.' 


26  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

lachimo.    What's  that? 

Postkumus.  'A  repulse;  though  your  attempt, 
as  you  call  it,  deserves  more,  —  a  castigation,  too.' 

Philario  at  this  point  interferes ;  for  Posthumus  is 
getting  excited,  and  lachimo  is  mercilessly  crowding 
him  to  his  doom.  The  conversation  has  dwindled  to 
this  one  topic,  while  Philario  would  have  it  general. 
But  lachimo  does  not  mind  Philario,  who  has  no  present 
power  of  calling  him  to  account. 

lachimo.  Would  I  had  put  my  estate  and  my 
neighbour'' s  on  the  approbation  of  what  I  have  spoken. 

Posthumus.  IVhai  lady  would  you  choose  to 
assail  ? 

lachimo.  Yours,  who  in  constancy  you  think 
stands  so  safe.  I  will  lay  you  ten  thousand  ducats, 
to  your  ring,  that,  commend  me  to  the  court  where 
your  lady  is  ...  I  will  bring  from  thence  that 
honour  of  hers  which  you  imagine  so  reserved. 

Posthumus.  I  will  wage  against  your  go\A,  gold 
to  it.     My  ring  I  hold  dear  as  my  fmger;  'tis  part  of  it. 

Posthumus  has  no  chance  of  getting  together  ten 
thousand  ducats,  but  in  his  present  condition  of  mind 
he  thinks  he  has,  and  declares  he  will  cover  the  bet. 
To  part  with  his  ring,  merely  while  it  shall  lie  in 
pledge,  he  cannot  think  of  doing.  lachimo  has  but  to 
taunt  him  with  being  really  unconfident  of  his  wife, 
to  bring  him  (11.  146-149)  to  the  terms  proposed:  — 

'  You  are  afraid ;  I  see  that  you  have  some  appre- 
hensions about  the  hereafter  in  you,  —  that  you  are 
really  a/raid.' 

Posthumus  cannot  longer  contain  himself.  Ring  or 
no  ring,  he  must  beat  the  fellow,  and  punish  him  ;  and 


CYMBELINE   I.  iv  2/ 

of  course  he  shall  soon  have  his  ring  back  from  the 
stake-holder. 

'  Let  there  be  covenants  drawn  between  us.  My 
mistress  exceeds  in  worth  even  the  mammoth  propor- 
tions of  your  evil  thinking.  I  dare  you  to  this 
match.     Here's  my  ring ! ' 

Philario  calls  out  that  he  will  not  have  the  dispute 
end  in  a  bet,  but  lachimo  slaps  his  leg,  and  cries, 
much  louder.  By  the  %Q)6.^,yoiire  too  late  ;  it  is  one. 

*  If  I  come  off,  and  leave  her  such  as  you  trust  her, 
she  your  jewel,  this  your  jewel,  and  my  gold  are 
yours:  provided  I  have  your  endorsement  for  my 
more  convenient  admittance  and  reception.' 

Very  slyly  has  the  author  contrived  to  attach  the  last 
clause  as  a  rider  to  the  whole ;  on  it  will  depend  the 
access  of  lachimo  to  the  British  court.  Posthumus 
cannot  realise  what  he  is  assenting  to.  Like  a  gambler, 
with  the  mad  expectation  of  winning,  he  is  carried 
away  captive  by  the  cool  avarice  of  his  adversary,  who 
knows  how  the  dice  are  loaded.  That  ring  is  too  grand 
a  thing  for  the  hand  of  a  friendless  and  witless  upstart, 
like  this  stranger,  to  be  wearing.  Then  there  is  be- 
sides, for  lachimo,  the  excitement  of  an  adventure  to 
look  forward  to.  Meanwhile  poor  Imogen,  badgered, 
heartsore,  and  worn,  bearing  the  chief  burdens  of  this 
separation,  in  far-off  Britain,  little  dreams  that  her 
husband  has  been  forced,  in  sheer  defence  of  her 
honour,  to  consent  that  an  lachimo  shall  cross  her  path. 
Such  is  the  evolution  of  lachimo's  plot  to  see  Imo- 
gen, and  of   Posthumus's   willingness  to    stake   her 


28  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

ring.  The  scene  has,  perhaps,  read  in  certain 
moods,  seemed  long,  and  perhaps  indeed 
indispen"^  Unnecessary.  But  it  is  vital  to  the  play,  and 
sable  to  the  jg  really  shorter  than  most  other  dramatists, 
^  °  '  accomplishing  as  much,  could  have  devised. 

To  be  sure,  it  is  not  a  pleasant  story ;  but  Shakespeare 
has  made  it  as  free  from  offensiveness  as  he  could. 
An  lachimo  of  real  life  would  have  said  much 
coarser  things. 

SCENE   V 

The  Queen  is  now  discovered  to  us  with  her  court 

ladies  and  chief  physician  :  a  rather  unusual  grouping, 

since  there  is  no  one  ill.     The  Queen  has 

The  .    . 

Queen  fur-  been  exhibited  pretty  effectually  already,  and 
ther  char-     ^g  woudcr  why  we  are  to  have  her  before 

actensed.  •' 

US,  as  the  chief  figure,  in  another  scene. 
There  is  to  be  a  flower-gathering  excursion,  perhaps 
beyond  the  palace  gardens,  but  not  of  the  usual  sort, 
not  for  the  pleasure  of  it ;  and  the  Queen  has  pre- 
pared, to  assist  her  purpose,  a  formal  list.  Did  ever 
women,  in  reach  of  flowers  with  the  dew  on  them, 
behave  before  like  this  }  Save  the  stepdame,  we  may 
safely  assume  that  no  one  of  the  company  would  have 
done  so  here. 

As  soon  as  the  court  ladies  are  out  of  hearing,  the 
Queen  asks  the  physician  concerning  drugs,  which  he 
has  been  commissioned  to  procure.  These  he  seems 
to  give  her.  But  it  is  at  once  made  known  to  us  that 
they  are  poisons,  and  of  a  kind  that  Shakespeare's  gen- 
eration were  more  familiar  with  than  we,  such,  namely, 


CYMBELINE  I.  v  29 

as  produce  death  with  certainty,  but  so  remotely  after 
administering  as  quite  to  prevent  detection  of  the  poi- 
soner, or  the  time  and  manner  of  his  deed.  We  are 
inclined  to  be  sceptical  about  such  poisons  naiian 
now,  but  the  audiences  for  whom  this  play  poisons. 
was  written  most  steadfastly  believed  in  them.  Ed- 
ward VI,  it  was  held  by  many,  had  died  by  this  means. 
The  doctor  is  made,  not  very  deftly,  to  disclose  the 
character  of  these  drugs,  through  asking  the  Queen 
why  she  has  required  them,  since  it  is  an  inquiry  made 
most  naturally  before  complying. 

The  Queen  by  her  response  arouses  our  suspicion 
very  strongly.     She  has  been  the  doctor's  pupil,  and 
preeminently    before    her   marriage,  when    she   was 
acquiring  certain    accomplishments,  one  of  ^^^  Queen 
which  seems  to  have  recommended  her  to  wooed  for 
the  King's  imagination.     Now,  very  lately,  fgcUons.' 
probably  since  Posthumus's  going,  she  has 
conceived  it  well  to  amplify  her  judgment  in  other 
conclusions.     She  admits  that  she  intends  to  use  the 
drugs  poisonously,  but  not  on  human  creatures.     Yet, 
as  Pisanio  enters,  she  declares  that  he  shall  be  the 
subject  of  her  first  experiment.     What  she  means  to 
do  eventually,  with  the  crown  in  prospect,  need  not 
be  more  broadly  hinted. 

The  careless  construction  of  the  play  is  evident  in 
the  asides.     The  author  uses  one  of  these  to  ^j^^  ^^^^^ 
bring  out  from  the  doctor  the  explanation  less  con- 
that  the  drugs  are  not  deadly  after  all.     On  the^piay. 
accomplishing  this,  Shakespeare  is  through 
with  him,  and  makes  the  Queen  dismiss  him,  that 


30 


WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 


she    may  talk  of   Imogen  to    Pisanio.     Her  (1.  46) 

first  inquiry,  — 

Weeps  she  still,  say'st  thou  ?  — 

eloquently  betrays  that  she  is  becoming  pretty  effec- 
tually acquainted  with  her  prisoner,  and  that  she  begins 
to  despair  of  winning  Imogen  away  from  Posthumus 
to  Cloten.  She  confidently  affirms  that  Posthumus's 
plight  is  more  hopeless  than  ever,  and  hints  broadly 
that  pressure  is  being  brought  to  bear  upon  Philario, 
to  make  him  withdraw  his  hospitahty.  This,  however, 
we  are  forced  to  conclude,  is  merely  falsehood.  The 
Queen  has  no  respect  for  the  intelligence  of  such  as 
she  would  make  her  dupes ;  and  she  plies  Pisanio 
with  the  most  outrageous  patronising.  To  complete 
the  flattery,  she  drops,  as  by  accident,  the  box  of 
drugs,  and  Pisanio,  springing  with  courtly  alacrity  to 
restore  it  to  her,  is  bidden  keep  it  for  his  pains.  With 
ready  mendacity,  she  declares  that  she  has  saved  the 
King's  life  five  times  already  with  that  medicine. 
Pisanio  is  naturally  disinclined  to  keep  so  precious 
a  cordial,  but  the  Queen  entreats.  Quite  evidently 
this  box  of  drugs  will  be  heard  of  later  in  the  plot. 

The  Queen  now  sends  for  the  women,  who  reenter 
bearing  large  bundles  of  fresh  blossoms.  But  the 
Queen  does  not  feel  prompted  to  smell  or  handle  any, 
not  even  of  the  violets,  which,  alone,  with  the  cowslips 
and  primroses,  she  has  carried  to  her  laboratory.  Will 
she  distil  court  perfumes  from  them,  —  or  is  it  all  a 
blind } 

The  purpose  of  the  scene  is  thus  the  twofold  one 
of  introducing  the  ruse  of  the  physician  as  a  factor 


CYMBELINE  I.  vi  3 1 

in  the  plot,  and  of  exhibiting  the  Queen's  character 
in  degree ;  the  latter  having  been  already,  in  Scene  i, 
presented  to  us  in  kind. 

SCENE  VI 

Will  the  author  force  us  to  witness  the  infamous 
wooing  of  Imogen  by  lachimo  ?  He  will  not  omit 
it;  not  because  he  will   joy  to  write  it,  or 

lachimo 

because  he  does  not  care  for  our  feehngs,  to  be  influ- 
or  thinks  we  need  to  see  his  heroine  tried,   encedby 

Imogen. 

He  would  save  her  this  interview  with  lach- 
imo if  by  any  means  he  might.  But  he  wishes  us 
to  know  what  influence  can  be  wrought  upon  lachimo 
by  an  Imogen.  The  scene  opens  with  a  mood  of 
dejection  and  tears.  The  weeks  of  the  Queen's  very 
civil  but  persistent  soHcitation  drag  heavily.  There 
is  no  golden  promise  in  the  sky  to  which  she  looks. 
But  she  will  live  true  to  herself,  no  matter  if  in  a 
neatherd's  cottage. 

Blest  be  those, 
How  mean  soe'er,  that  have  their  honest  wills, 
Which  seasons  comfort. 

She  cries  out  in  dismay ;  for  there  is  a  nobleman 
approaching  whom  she  does  not  know.  Her  eyes 
are  red,  and  she  would  see  no  stranger.  But  Pisanio, 
asking  no  leave,  evidently  because  of  some  message 
or  commission  from  Posthumus,  brings  the  guest 
before  her.  At  mention  of  her  lord,  the  colour  comes 
back  to  her  pale  cheek. 

lachimo  has  long  been  practised  in  the  effects  of 
boldness.     He  should,  as  Posthumus's  friend,  show 


32  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

himself  most  chivalrous  and  worshipful  here;  but 
Imogen,  though  a  king's  daughter,  hears  no  false  note 
(11.  11-13)  in  the  first  words  :  — 

Change  you,  madam  ? 
The  worthy  Leonatus  is  in  safety, 
And  greets  your  highness  dearly. 

lachimo  evidently  knows   how  to   address  a  young 

wife  whose  husband  is   in  exile.     He   affects  to  be 

acquainted  with  the  contents  of   the  letter 

Imogen  r    -r.        1 

at  first  that  he  presents,  as  if  he  were  of  Posthu- 
subordi-       mus's  counscl.     So  far,  he  has  advantaged 

nated.  '  ,  ^ 

himself  by  the  interview ;  he  has  impressed 
Imogen  as  of  an  obtrusive,  compelling  personality.  In 
her  weary  and  heart-sick  frame  of  mind  she  no  doubt 
dreads  the  presence  of  such  a  man,  and  in  so  far  he  has 
subordinated  her.  lachimo,  for  his  part,  has  been  sur- 
prised and  dismayed  at  the  repose  and  strength  of 
her  patrician  bearing.  Perhaps  the  dames  of  Italy 
have  the  habit  of  meeting  his  impudent,  command- 
ing gaze  with  looks  full  of  mischief  and  challenge ; 
his  boastings  to  Posthumus  cannot  have  meant  much 
less.  But  here  is  a  type  of  womanhood  that  does 
not  know  and  cannot  guess  what  such  manners  mean, 
lachimo  begins  to  feel  the  stir  of  something  like  rev- 
erence within :  — 

AH  of  her  that  is  out  of  door,  most  rich  ! 

If  she  be  furnish'd  with  a  mind  so  rare, 

She  is  alone  the  Arabian  bird,  and  I 

Have  lost  the  wager.     Boldness  be  my  friend  ! 

Arm  me,  audacity,  from  head  to  foot ! 

Or,  like  the  Parthian,  I  shall  flying  fight; 

Rather,  directly  fly. 


CYMBELINE  I.  vi  33 

When  was  this  man  ever  persuaded  before  of  so 
much  as  the  existence  of  the  phenix  of  virtue  ?  It 
makes  him  obviously  uncomfortable  to  anticipate  the 
role  that  he  must  undertake.  Imogen  for  the  moment 
has  been  lost  in  her  husband's  letter.  Posthumus 
has  fulfilled  his  part  of  the  diabolic  compact.  We 
wonder  indeed  how  he  could  say,  except  in  a  quibble, 
that  he  is  infinitely  tied  to  lachimo's  kindnesses. 
Imogen  reads  to  her  guest  the  last  words  of  the 
letter,  as  a  means  of  paying  him  the  respect  which 
her  husband  bespeaks,  and  partly  because  she  would 
not  be  selfishly  absorbed  in  her  own  joys.  Her  mood 
toward  him  is  altered.  Why,  here  is  instead  of  a 
stranger  a  dear  friend  of  her  husband,  one  who  has 
sweetened  his  homelessness  and  desolation  with 
gracious  offices.  Being  the  matter-of-fact,  domestic 
creature  that  we  know,  she  has  no  doubt  begun  al- 
ready to  cast  about  for  means  of  entertaining  him. 
But  she  remembers  that  she  is  in  effect  a  prisoner. 
Has  her  husband  hinted  to  his  friend  that  her  liberty 
in  her  father's  house  is  scanted  .-'  We  catch  clearly 
(11.  29-31)  the  note  of  perplexity  :  — 

You  are  as  welcome,  worthy  sir,  as  I 
Have  words  to  bid  you,  and  shall  find  it  so 
In  all  that  I  can  do. 

But  lachimo  little  dreams   how  the   lady's  mind  is 
cumbered  for  him,  at  this  rare  moment,  in   lachimo 
noble  hospitality ;  he  is  too  absorbed  in  his  cannot 

•  •11  r        •  1  TT  bring  him- 

pitiable  attempt  to  fascmate  her.     He  pro-  self  to  pre- 
ceeds,  scrutinising  her  beauty  of  face  and  '^"^  ^°  ^^ 

"^    ,  amorous 

figure,  in  a  sexless,  almost  an  mventorymg  mood. 

D 


34  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE  ? 

mood,  to  make  comments  of  surprise.  He  expects 
to  be  understood  as  implying  that  large  distinc- 
tions of  charm,  palpable  enough  to  him,  are  not 
discerned  by  another  pair  of  eyes,  of  course  Pos- 
thumus's.  But  in  this,  which  would  have  made 
another  sort  of  princess  understand  that  she  was  de- 
spised and  rejected,  and  in  favour  of  a  rival  vastly  her 
inferior,  Imogen  sees  nothing,  suspects  nothing,  and  is 
objective  enough  even  to  ask  what  makes  the  wonder, 
lachimo  essays  to  grow  more  pointed,  and  hints 
broadly  that  there  are  two  between  whom  her  hus- 
band chooses.  Imogen's  obtuseness  grows,  and 
lachimo,  perhaps  somewhat  from  the  fear  that  he  is 
being  made  game  of  in  the  presence  of  her  servant, 
manages  to  invent  a  reason  for  sending  that  super- 
numerary out.  But  after  Pisanio's  exit,  the  same 
honest,  earnest  eyes  rest  upon  lachimo,  and  while  he 
waits  perhaps  to  recover  his  inspiration,  he  hears 
(1.  56)  an  inquiry  not  anticipated  in  the  letter  :  — 

Continues  well  my  lord  ?     His  health,  beseech  you  ? 

lachimo  has  exhausted  his  boldness.  Little  indeed 
has  come  of  it.  Nothing  is  more  remarkable  than 
The  Ian-  ^^^  Severely  proper  language  in  which  the 
guage  en-  presence  of  this  woman  has  forced  him  to 
Imogen^  clothc  his  effrontery.  Has  he  ever  main- 
from  lach-  taiued  such  speech  for  so  long  before  to  man 
or  woman  ?  Not  a  syllable  of  real  coarse- 
ness has  passed  his  lips.  His  next  expedient,  the 
attempt  to  arouse  jealousy  having  failed,  is  to  assure 
Imogen  of  Posthumus's  levity.     She  has  asked  if  her 


CYMBELINE  I.  vi  35 

husband  keeps  cheerful.  That  furnishes  the  cue ; 
and  (11.  59-61)  the  answer  is, — 

Exctedi7ig  pleasant ;  none  a  stranger  there 
So  merry  and  so  gamesome.     He  is  call'd 
The  Briton  reveller. 

How  would  it  make  most  brides  feel  to  be  assured 
that  their  exiled  husbands  were  mysteriously  and 
boisterously  gay }  It  would  be  but  in  keeping  that 
Posthumus  should  maintain  a  lenten  soberness  for 
Imogen's  sake,  while  she  is  suffering  for  his  sake, 
being  deprived  of  her  liberty  even  more  than  he  has 
been  deprived  of  his.  But  Imogen  has  no  such  envy 
as  to  require  that  her  husband  endure  the  same  sorrow 
as  herself.  She  believes  what  lachimo  tells  her,  and 
does  not  understand  it,  yet  finds  it  all  right  to  her. 
She  remembers,  however,  that  it  was  once  not  so  with 
him :  — 

When  he  was  here 
He  did  incline  to  sadness,  and  oft-times 
Not  knowing  why. 

There  is  so  much  of  Gothic  repose,  of  Madonna- 
like high-mindedness  and  renunciation  that  it  is 
strange  lachimo  can  go  on.  There  is  sadness  enough, 
we  may  be  sure,  in  the  eyes  that  are  looking  upon  him 
now,  trying  to  find  the  truth  that  this  messenger  is  so 
unwilling  to  declare.  The  destroyer  of  her  peace 
reports  that  her  husband  makes  insinuations  against 
her  and  all  her  sex,  but  the  anxious,  inquiring  look 
seems  not  to  change.  lachimo  affirms  broadly,  and 
no  doubt  with  a  knowing  shrug  that  would  compromise 
a  saint,  that  some  men  are  much  to  blame.    But  when 


36  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

Imogen  asks,  with  dawning  dismay,  if  he  means  her 
husband,  he  is  forced  (1.  78)  to  answer  No :  — 

Not  he  ;  but  heaven's  bounty  towards  him  might 

Be  us'd  more  thankfully.     In  himself,  'tis  much  ; 

In  yott  [it],  which  I  account  his,  [is]  beyond  all  talents. 

Whilst  I  am  bound  to  wonder,  I  am  bound 

To  pity  too. 

Imogen.     What  do  you  pity,  sir  ? 

lachimo.     Two  creatures  heartily. 

But  the  innuendo  does  not  take.    Imogen  is  hopelessly 

obtuse.     She  cannot  be  roused,  as  the  Italian  donna 

would  have  been  aroused  insanely,  long  before,  to  a 

jealous  mood.      Instead,  remembering  per- 

Imogens       ■•  '  or 

concern  for  haps  how  thesc  weeks  since  her  husband's 
looks^'*^       exile  must  have  told  upon  her  features,  — 
for  even  an  Imogen  cares  when  her  cheek 
is  pale  and  wasted,  —  she  anxiously  inquires,  — 

Am  /  one,  sir  ? 
You  look  on  me.     What  wrack  discern  you  in  me 
Deserves  your  pity  ? 

lachimo  answers  darkly,  that  it  is  all  as  if  he  were  to 
hide  from  the  radiant  sun,  and  get  solace  in  a  dungeon 
by  the  dying  light  of  an  unsnuffed  candle.  But  not 
only  does  this  inexplicable  British  woman  fail  to  get 
the  hint  again  ;  she  even  turns  on  him  with  a  Juno's 
dignity,  and  demands  the  reason  for  his  presump- 
tion :  — 

I  pray  you,  sir, 
Deliver  with  more  openness  your  answers 
To  my  demands.      Why  do  you  pity  me  ? 

None  but  one  of  the  breed  of  lago,  who  dared  to 
sport  with  the   enraged  Othello,  would  have  risked 


CYMBELINE  I.  vi  3/ 

further  impertinence  with  this  princess.  lachimo 
thinks  that  one  dark  saying  more  will  complete  the 
mischief.  He  utters  but  certain  significant  words  of 
this,  affecting  to  halt  aghast  at  the  enormity  of  what 
is  left  unsaid.  Imogen  does  not  grow  incensed,  feel- 
ing it  now  wrong  to  fall  out  with  the  bearer  of  her 
news.  She  begs  him  to  tell  plainly  what  he  has  come 
to  report  to  her. 

lachimo  is  Italian  in  nothing  so  much  perhaps  as 
ingenuity.       It  is  no   hardship   for  him  to  suffer  a 
check  like  this  ;  else  were  he  dismayed  and   lachimo 
resourceless    now.     He  ventures  some  hint  ventures 

only  dis- 

of  compliment  to  this  lady's  cheek  and  hand  tant  com- 
and  eye,  but  he  is  very  worshipful  and  dis-  P'""ents. 
tant  in  it  all.  Imogen  is  not  one  whose  beauty  it  will 
do  to  praise  openly :  that  lachimo  has  read  aright 
Otherwise  he  would  have  made  sonnets  to  her  eyebrow 
from  the  first.  His  attempt  to  declare  plainly,  as 
Imogen  has  asked,  how  she  is  wronged,  is  deftly  sub- 
ordinated to  his  chivalrous  admiration.  Nothing  so 
well  measures  the  power  of  her  presence,  of  her  pure 
and  anxious  countenance,  as  the  lofty  indirectness 
with  which  lachimo  addresses  her  at  this  moment. 
The  gist  at  last  is  clear :  Posthumus  has  fallen  below 
himself,  —  if  this  friend  says  true  ;  and  Imogen  can- 
not think  that  he  is  uttering  falsehood.  She  is  too 
unselfish,  too  noble  to  feel  the  wrong  done  to  herself. 
There  is  no  trace  of  jealousy,  no  wish  to  extort  pain 
for  pain.  But  lachimo  assumes  that,  since  she  is 
woman,  such  must  be  her  feelings,  and  he  prepares 
to  use  them  to  his  profit.     Italian  great  dames  feel 


38  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

such  passions,  and  ply  dagger  and  poison  on  no 
better  evidence. 

lachimo,  blinded  by  his  mistake  and  his  success, 
pushes  on.  He  risks  another  compHment.  *  Not  I, 
inclined  to  this  tale-bearing,  pronounce  the  beggary 
of  his  change,  but  '\\syoiir  graces  that  charm  this  story 
out.'  That,  in  Imogen's  eyes,  amounts  to  flattery,  and 
seems  (1.  117)  to  flash  on  her  the  falseness  of  his 
mind :  — 

Let  me  hear  no  more ! 

But  lachimo  grows  frantic  in  his  anxiousness  for  this 
wronged  lady.  Were  Imogen  at  all  aware  of  the 
dramatic  craftiness  of  his  race,  his  zeal  would  have 
wrought  no  pause  to  her  indignation.  But  the  fervour 
and  the  poignant  concern  on  lachimo's  face  deceive 
her  for  a  moment  yet. 

O  deai-est  soul !    Your  cause  doth  strike  my  heart 
With  pity,  that  doth  make  me  sick.     A  lady 
So  fair,  and  fasten'd  to  an  empery  [that] 
Would  make  the  great'st  king  double. 

This  could  not  but  make  an  impression  upon  a  Brit- 
ish gentlewoman's  credulity,  though  it  would  scarcely 
have  deceived  an  Italian  lass  of  ten.  The  sugges- 
tion besides  of  Posthumus's  ingratitude,  that  he  is 
lavishing  his  princess-wife's  treasures  upon  dissolute 
companions,  will  carry,  as  lachimo  believes,  a  madden- 
ing sting.  There  is  need  now,  he  thinks,  but  to  hint 
of  reprisals.  But,  marvel  of  marvels,  this  woman  has 
(11.  128-132)  no  most  distant  suspicion  of  what  he 
means : — 


CYMBELINE  I.  vi  39 

R evened  I 
How  should  I  be  revengVl?     ^this  be  true,  — 
As  I  have  such  a  heart  that  both  mine  ears 
Must  not  in  haste  abuse, —  if  it  be  true, 
How  should  I  be  reveng'd? 

lachimo's  humiliation  is  not  complete.  He  must 
explain  again,  deliver  with  more  openness  what  he 
would  have  her  know.  It  were  enough  surely  that 
he  had  said 

Should  he  make  me,  — 

but  lachimo  goes  on,  rounding  out  a  paragraph  that 
Imogen  lets  him  finish,  to  be  sure  that  her  ears  do 
not  mistake.  Then,  immediately,  she  calls  her  serv- 
ing-man. lachimo,  believing,  or  affecting  to  believe 
this  but  a  last  feint  of  dissent,  advances  to  attempt  a 
kiss.     Then  (1.  141)  he  learns  what  the  situation  is. 

Away  I     I  do  condemn  my  ears  that  have 

So  long  attended  thee.     If  thou  wert  honourable, 

Thou  wouldst  have  told  this  taleyor  virtue,  not 

Yov  such  an  end  [as]  thou  seek'st,  — as  base  as  strange. 

Thou  wrong'st  a  gentleman  wh(j  is  as  far 

From  thy  report  as  thou  from  honour,  and 

Solicit'st  here  a  larly  that  disdains 

Thee  and  the  devil  alike.     What,  ho,  Pisanio  ! 

Imogen  feels  no  sensitiveness  or  indignation  that 
such  a  thing  has  happened  to  her,  never  thinks  what 
the  world  would  say  if  it   only   knew,  and   Imogen 
probably    administers    this    divine    rebuke  "o' <^'ia- 
without  a  blush.     The  sublime  repose  of  her   jadiimos 
nature  is  even  yet  unshaken.     She  has  not   '"soience. 
believed  the  slander  against  her  husband,  she  has  ex- 
posed the  foolish  villany  of  this  sorry  fellow,  and  put 


40  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

him  to  a  lifelong  shame.  Were  she  as  once  wholly  in 
her  father's  favour,  her  triumph  would  be  complete. 
She  will  not  feign  the  royal  vindication,  she  merely 
presumes  it ;  but  lachimo  finds  in  it  undoubtedly  none 
the  less  a  menace.  It  is  all  in  all  an  incident  that 
Imogen  will  forget  quickly,  or  will  remember,  because 
inexplicable,  without  trepidation  or  regret. 

How  an  Italian,  even  of  this  lago  stamp,  could 
muster  courage  to  unsay  his  sayings,  surpasses  Anglo- 
Saxon  knowledge.  But  even  this  (11.  162-165)  is 
within  the  role  of  an  lachimo. 

Give  me  your  pardon ! 
I  have  spoke  this  to  know  if  your  affiance 
Were  deeply  rooted,  and  shall  make  your  lord, 
That  which  he  is,  new  o'er. 

Imogen  is  not  surprised  to  hear  her  husband  praised  ; 
her  repose  is  undisturbed  even  by  this  contradiction, 
lachimo,  getting  in  acknowledgment  but  the  words 
'  You  make  amends,'  goes  on  with  unction  to  extort 
from  the  princess  at  least  more  than  that.  He  adds 
more  praises,  and  with  Italian  grace  and  deference 
asks  pardon.  But  while  he  is  exploiting  himself  in 
this  half-frantic  effort,  which  wins  from  her  (1.  179) 
only  the  laconic  and  almost  ironic  answer,  — 

All's  well,  sir.     Take  my  power  i'  the  court  for  yours,— 

he  is  evidently  divining  a  new  matter.  '  If  the  crea- 
imogenis  ^"^^  ^^  ^^  devotcd  to  her  husband  as  this 
to  bade-  comes  to,  why,  just  through  that  devotion 
through  her  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^  tricked  into  compromising  con- 
devotion,      ditions  that  will  save   me  yet   the   wager. 


CYMBELINE  I.  vi  4 1 

She  is  infatuated  enough  to  lavish  fondness  upon  any- 
thing that  her  husband  cares  for,  and  will  be  blind 
to  every  strategy  that  purports  to  honour  him.' 
lachimo's  fetch  is  on  the  instant  ready  :  — 

lachimo.     My  humble  thanks.     I  had  almost  forgot 
To  entreat  your  grace  but  in  a  small  request, 
And  yet  of  moment  too,  for  it  concerns 
Your  lord. 

Ifjiogen.     Pray,  what  is  it  ? 

lachimo.     Some  dozen  Romans  of  us,  and  your  lord,  — 

Now  all  is  different.  The  young  princess-bride  shows 
animation ;  her  wonderful  statuesque  repose  is  well- 
nigh  lifted.  Here  is  something  to  do,  a  chance  for 
love  and  devotion  to  express  themselves  as  other  than 
mere  sentiments  :  — 

Willingly, 
And  pawn  mine  honour  for  their  safety.     Since 
My  lord  hath  interest  in  them,  I  will  keep  them 
In  my  bedchamber. 

Of  course.     lachimo  has  divined  rightly  that  Imogen 
cannot  do  less  than  keep  guard  over  the  treasure  that 
she  believes  is  in  part  her  husband's.     He   Imogen 
shall  need  but  to  hint  at  the  trouble  it  will  anxious  to 

1      r  1  •         •  keep  the 

cause  her,  —  'only  for  this  night, — to  make  trunk 
her  beg  for  a  longer  service.  It  is  the  only  io"ger. 
happiness  that  has  come  to  her  since  Posthumus  went 
away.  She  even  prays  lachimo  not  to  go  to-morrow  ! 
lachimo  explains  that  he  has  been  carried  out  of  his 
way  by  his  promise  to  see  her,  and  Imogen,  though 
reminded  thus  of  how  it  has  been  kept,  has  so  far 
forgotten  as  to  hint  again  that  she  would  have  him 
stay.     lachimo  is  in  no  danger  of  flattering  himself 


42  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

that  it  is  his  presence  which  she  finds  acceptable; 
that  he  knows  too  well  is  the  occasion,  not  the  cause. 
So,  by  way  of  lachimo's  Machiavellian  wit  and  of 
Imogen's  objective  affection,  the  author  has  gained 
approach  to  the  palace  and  to  Imogen's  apartments, 
for  the  trunk,  as  demanded  by  the  plot. 

Clearly,  outside  of  its  plot  significance,  this  is  an 
important  part  of  the  play.  We  have  seen  this  Brit- 
lachimo  ^^^  priuccss,  unintcndingly,  without  effort, 
forced  to  and,  indeed,  unconsciously,  compel  a  man 
Imogen  ^^^  ^^^  ^^  respect  for  woman,  and  who  has 
and  her  affected  cvcn  to  believe  himself  a  universal 
fascinator,  conceive  a  very  deep  respect  for 
her,  and  for  her  sex  through  her.  She  knows  no  sur- 
prises ;  she  is  so  at  one  in  her  integrity  with  the  eternal 
right  that  she  thinks  no  evil  and  feels  no  need  to  vindi- 
cate herself  against  it.  She  has  filled  Posthumus  with 
a  sense  of  her  truth  and  strength.  It  grows  clearer 
how  he  could  consent  that  this  lachimo  should  cross 
her  path  ;  he  knew  that  what  we  have  seen  happen 
is  what  would  happen.  It  is  not  much  marvel,  then, 
that  he  has  called  this  wife  of  his,  being  unable  to 
separate  her  rank  and  birth  from  her  personality, 
persistingly  a  queen. 

Act  II 

SCENE   I 

There  are  unpleasant  residues   of   Cloten's  char- 
acter to  be  shown ;    and   it  is  the  author's 
cioten  be-  pleasure,    while   we   wait    the    outcome   of 

lated  in  dis- 

sipation.      lachimo's  effort  with  the  trunk,  to  open  some 


CYMBELINE   II.  il  43 

of  them  to  us.  Cloten  is  a  man  past  thirty,  and  has 
apparently  been  so  belated  in  his  wild-oats  sowing  as 
to  covet  every  opportunity  of  dissipation.  He  lays 
hundred-pound  bets  upon  his  bowling,  swears  roundly 
when  he  loses,  and  knocks  down  with  his  bowl  the 
man  who  rebukes  him  for  his  oaths.  The  rank  that 
his  mother's  marriage  has  brought  him,  entitles  him 
to  commit  offences  upon  his  inferiors,  and  insures 
him  immunity  for  any  species  of  behaviour.  The 
First  Lord,  we  notice,  has  tired,  seemingly,  since 
his  former  appearance  with  Cloten,  of  his  flattery  ; 
and  the  Second  Lord  speaks  aloud  this  time  in  an 
occasional  phrase  of  irony.  The  scene  is  closed  with 
a  soliloquy,  in  which  the  author  makes  sure  that  the 
slowest  of  his  audience  understands  everything,  ex- 
cept the  lachimo  episode,  that  has  been  essayed 
thus  far. 

SCENE   II 

lachimo  ended  his  interview  with  Imogen,  appar- 
ently, when  it  was  yet  daylight.  Imogen  finished 
the  letters  for  her  husband  something  before   t 

o  Imogen, 

nine  o'clock,  which  was  the  time  of  her  re-  like  Lady 
tiring.      She  has   been  reading  in  bed,  as  and\iiza-^' 
seems   her   habit,    during   the   three    hours  beth,  a 
since.     This  is  clearly  meant  to  establish  her 
to  us  as  of  an  intellectual  and  literary  cast  of  mind. 
Of  course,  most  ladies  of  rank  are  of  this  sort  to-day. 
But  in  Shakespeare's  times  there  were  few  reading 
women.     Only  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Elizabeth,  and 
some    rare    spirits    besides,    had,    to    Shakespeare's 
knowledge,  bothered  themselves   much  with   books. 


44 


WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 


There  was,  moreover,  not  much  to  read.  People 
who  nowadays  can  sit  down  to  a  fresh  book  or 
magazine  every  evening,  little  realise  the  dearth  of 
edifying  literature,  then,  at  least  for  lady  readers. 
We  note  here  also,  that,  while  Imogen  has  waiting 
women  to  execute  her  least  behest,  she  is  yet  as 
wifely  as  if  she  were  her  own  housekeeper.  She 
wishes  to  be  waked  at  dawn,  after  four  hours'  sleep, 
that  she  may  resume  her  cares.  She  is  (11.  8-10), 
withal,  devout,  — 

To  your  protection  I  commend  me,  gods  ! 
From  fairies,  and  the  tempters  of  the  night, 
Guard  me,  beseech  ye  ! 

But  her  prayers  are  vain.      Already  in  the  trunk, 

which  is  doubtless  placed  where  she  can  see  it  most 

conveniently,  lies  in  wait  a  relentless  enemy. 

not  curious  Had  she  been  curious,  had  she  demanded  to 

to  see  the  gee  the  gift  of  plate  that  her  husband  con- 
gift  oi  plate.       .,  1  r  1 

tributed  some  of  her  money  to  procure,  per- 
haps lachimo's  stratagem  would  have  failed.  But 
she  has  surely  not  asked  to  see  it,  being  content  to 
keep  it  and  guard  it,  and  feel  it  near.  Had  she  been 
less  matter-of-fact  and  practical,  she  might  have  di- 
vined by  the  modes  of  telepathy,  or  in  some  other 
way,  that  her  doom  was  here.  But  she  is  alone  with 
her  integrity  and  sweet  devotion.     She  sleeps. 

It  is  past,  much  past  two  o'clock.  The  trunk-lid 
rises  softly.  lachimo  is  no  chicken-hearted  dabbler 
in  criminality,  but  he  feels  instantly,  as  he  lifts  his 
head  and  emerges  into  the  perfumed  and  silent  cham- 
ber, the  influences  of  the  place.     Tarquin,  he  at  once 


CYMBELINE  II.  ii  45 

fancies,  must  have  moved  thus  gently,  and  felt  him- 
self just  such  a  monster.  He  has  come  to  note  down 
in  detail  the  furnishings  and  belongings  of  the  room  ; 
but  the  intensity  of  his  impressions  makes  that  un- 
necessary. The  taper  that  the  waiting  woman  left 
lighted  discovers  to  us  the  arms  of  the  sleeper  lying 
bare  upon  the  counterpane,  and  the  bracelet  of  Pos- 
thumus.  But  how  chances  she  to  be  wearing  this 
bracelet  even  when  sleeping  ?  Her  lover  did  not  ask 
her  to  keep  it  always  upon  her  arm.  But  he  prom- 
ised that  her  ring  should  not  part  from  his  finger ;  so 
she,  without  promising  or  even  telling,  wears  thus 
his  bracelet.  lachimo  at  once  sees  the  importance 
of  such  a  token  and  unclasps  it.  Were  Imogen  less 
profoundly  locked  in  slumber,  she  would  probably 
have  felt  the  movement  or  the  loss.  But  her  habit 
of  denying  herself  what  she  thinks  unnecessary 
sleep,  prevents  her  waking. 

The  Elizabethans  wore  no  night  clothing  after 
retiring.  Hence  it  chances  here,  the  coverlet  being 
drawn  a  little  by  the  sleeper's  arm,  that  the  crimson 
mark  over  the  left  breast  is  disclosed.  The  know- 
ledge of  this,  lachimo  feels,  is  the  lady's  doom : 
she  will  be  proved  unfaithful,  and  her  husband  will 
be  lost  to  her.  The  work  of  the  visit  has  been 
accomphshed.     The  ring  shall  be  his  own.   ,    ^. 

'^  °  lachimo 

But  the  sureness  of  victory  brings  a  changed  sees 
feelinsr  toward  his  victim  :  it  comes  over  him   if^oge"  ^^ 

°  _  we  see  her. 

what   a  woman  this    is.     With    his    Italian 
penetration  he  sees   her   as  we  see  her,  knows  her 
as  we  know  her.     He  cares  nothing  for  what  shall 


46  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

ensue  to  her,  but  he  would  be  removed  from  her, 
from  the  sight  of  her  at  once,  as  far  as  possible.  There 
is  no  need  of  hurrying,  there  is  every  reason  why  he 
should  not  withdraw  to  his  cramping  and  suffocating 
covert  for  a  long  time  yet.  But,  as  in  a  panic,  he 
retreats  precipitately  to  enter  the  trunk  again,  and 
even  (1.  47)  lock  the  lid  down  upon  himself  :  — 

Swift,  swift,  you  dragons  of  the  night,  that  dawning 
May  bare  the  raven's  eye  !     I  lodge  in  fear  ; 
Though  this  a  heavenly  angel,  hell  is  here. 

He  knows  that  he  runs  no  least  risk  of  detection,  or 
punishment,  yet  he  trembles  with  a  vague,  inexplica- 
ble dread.  He  is  sensible  of  only  this,  that,  while 
here  is  an  angel  who  should  inaugurate  the  presence 
of  heaven,  he  finds  hell  instead.  It  is  the  hell,  could 
he  but  know,  that  a  woman's,  such  a  woman's  great- 
ness of  soul,  can  establish  within  a  man,  when  he  has 
put  himself  at  variance  with  it.  The  quick,  almost 
spiteful  strokes  of  the  clock,  one,  two,  three,  furnish 
a  powerfully  dramatic  close. 

Of  course  in  a  play  everything  of  moment  must  be 
enacted  ;  that  is,  must  be  brought  to  pass  visually  to 
the  audience.  We  need  to  know  here  just  how 
lachimo  got  the  evidence  he  wanted.  In  addition, 
the  author  wishes  to  show  us  more  completely  what 
influences  a  pure,  grand  woman  can  exert,  by  mere 
presence,  because  of  instinctive  reverence  in  his  sex 
for  these  quahties,  upon  a  strong  man  who  is  allied 
with  evil.  In  this  spiritual  subordination  of  wrong 
to  truth,  he  leaves  the  pair. 


CYMBELINE   11.  iii  47 

But  the  play,  as  we  have  undoubtedly  been  aware, 
moves  slowly.  We  have  taken  two  pages  to  explain 
one.  Yet  this,  in  the  case  of  genuine  literature,  is 
always  necessary ;  for  the  much  is  presented  poten- 
tially in  little.  A  work  of  literary  genius  is  always 
thus  potential,  and  must  be  spiritually  discerned. 
The  expansion  of  what  is  spiritually  discerned  into 
concrete  details  is  what  is  called  Interpretation.  In 
an  artist's  work  there  are  hints  or  proofs  of  generic 
qualities,  which  the  discerning  mind  realises  and 
enlarges.  There  may  be  time  later  to  discuss  with 
some  definiteness  how  this  is  done. 

SCENE  ni 

Cloten  was  of  course  unsuccessful  in  his  attempt 
to  find  lachimo  last  night  to  gamble  with  ;  that  dis- 
tinguished guest  having  managed  to  offer  an 
excuse   for   disappearing.     But  Cloten  did  systemat- 
not  lose  the  evening,  nevertheless ;  the  brace  ^^"^  . 
of  companions  with  whom  we  have  seen  him 
hitherto  have  stayed  by  him,  and  relieved  him  of  his 
allowance  from   the   King's   treasury.      The  time  is 
daybreak  —  the  spring  season  with  which   the  play 
opened  having  now  advanced  almost  to  June  —  and 
Imogen's  waiting- woman   has  just  aroused  her  mis- 
tress. 

When  not  in  the  depths  of  dissipation,  Cloten  is 
pressing  his  suit  to  Posthumus's  wife,  though  he 
wooes,  it  would  seem,  mainly  by  proxy.  He  has 
arranged  for  a  serenade  to  Imogen,  his  mother  hav- 
ing apparently  advised  that  he  try  music  o'  mornings, 


48  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

—  "  they  say  it  will  penetrate."  But  he  has  hit  upon 
the  most  unpropitious  day  in  all  the  calendar;  for 
Imogen  is  in  deep  vexation  at  the  loss  of  her  bracelet, 
at  once  missed  on  waking.  It  is  a  vexation  not  to  be 
much  allayed,  we  may  be  sure,  by  the  attentions  or 
presence  of  Cloten  at  this  untimely  hour. 

The  musicians  sing  an  exquisite  song,  one  stanza 

of  it,  and  go  away  with  an  unprincely  fee.     Perhaps 

if  they  had  been  called  back,  and  paid  more 

spearedoes  fittingly,  they  would  have  rendered  the  two 

not  indulge  songs,  in  fuU,  as  they  were  bid.     But,  obvi- 

in  episodes.  i  i  •       i  •      i  r-.ii 

ously,  the  smgle  verse  is  better.  Shake- 
speare does  not  treat  his  audience  to  episodes,  or  this 
singing  might  otherwise  have  become  one.  In  lieu 
of  response  from  Imogen's  apartments,  Cymbeline 
and  the  Queen  appear,  we  wonder  why.  The  hour 
is  absurdly  early  for  such  as  sleep  in  king's  houses 
to  be  stirring,  and  especially  for  a  sovereign  of  Cym- 
beline's  years.  We  shall  probably  remember  that 
the  author  has  been  introducing  Imogen  and  Cloten 
just  after  each  other,  and  has  brought  about  relations 
between  them  not  well  adapted  to  a  scene  in  common. 
But  they  are  now  to  have  their  first  interview  in  our 
sight.  To  mitigate  the  antagonism,  as  well  as  to  give 
Cloten  in  a  measure  the  royal  warrant,  the  King  has 
been  somewhat  unnaturally  worked  into  the  scene. 
The  whole  is  dignified  and  strengthened  by  the 
report,  introduced  by  a  messenger,  that  Roman 
ambassadors  are  awaiting  audience. 

Cloten  lingers  about  the  doors  of  Imogen,  deter- 
mined  to  secure  some  recognition  of   his  serenade, 


CYMBELINE   II.  ill  49 

and  of  course  soliloquises ;  an  actor  cannot  wait 
speechless  upon  the  stage.  His  talk  consists  mainly 
of  obvious  propositions ;  here  he  advises  with  him- 
self concerning  the  power  of  gold.  One  of  Imogen's 
women  appears.  How  Cloten  is  regarded  by  court 
serving-folk  is  hinted  clearly  enough  by  the  way  she 
fools  with  him.  Imogen  has  apparently  heard  the 
knocking,  and  guessed  the  visitor.  The  mistress  of 
this  part  of  the  palace  seems  not  unwilling  to  respond 
in  person  this  morning  to  the  challenge. 

Cloten    may   now  recommend  himself   in  person. 
What  resources  will  he  show .-'      How  manfully  and 
gracefully  will  he  woo .-'     Here  we  find  un- 
equivocally his  measure ;    or,  shall  we    not  sume"but 
say,    it   is   the    measure    of    the    influence  <«  "^^^  ^^'^ 

T  >  ^     r  sister. 

Imogen  s  presence  and  face  exerts  upon 
him  .-*  He  salutes  her  as  Jiis  sister  !  He  has  the  right  to 
kiss  her  hand  without  the  asking  ;  he  calls  her  fairest ; 
but  to  put  himself  hopelessly  out  of  the  role  of  wooer 
by  assuming  to  approach  but  as  a  brother  shows  how 
he  weakens.  But  brother  or  wooer  is,  in  her  present 
mood,  all  the  same  to  Imogen.  Were  she  inclined  to 
mischief,  she  would  have  taken  him  at  his  word, 
and  insisted  upon  his  confining  himself  to  brotherly 
behaviour  ever  after.  She  is  both  too  literal  and  too 
angry  (11.  92-95)  to  think  of  irony  :  — 

Good  morrow,  sir.     You  lay  out  too  much  pains 
For  purchasing  but  trouble.     The  thanks  I  give 
Is  telling  you  that  I  am  poor  of  thanks, 
And  scarce  can  spare  them. 

Cloten  should   have  caught  the  pitch  of  feeling  in 

E 


50  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

this  deliverance.  But  he  must  needs  make  a  decla- 
ration, "Still  I  swear  I  love  you."  Imogen  listens 
soberly,  almost  stoically,  and  deprecates  with  con- 
siderate sincerity,  though  vainly  :  — 

If  you  but  said  50,  'twere  as  deep  with  me; 
If  you  swear  still,  your  recompense  is  still 
That  I  regard '\\.  not. 

Cloten.  This  is  no  answer. 

Imogen.    But  that   you   shall  not  say  I  yield, 
being  silent, 
I  would  not  speak.     I  pray  you,  spare  me.     'Faith, 
I  shall  unfold  equal  discourtesy 
To  your  best  kindness.     One  of  your  great  knowing 
Should  learn,  being  taught,  forbearance. 

Imogen  is  approaching  the  limit  of  her  patience. 
She  pleads  to  be  let  alone ;  she  indulges  in  a  hint  of 
irony.  But  Cloten  has  no  suspicion  of  jeopardy,  and 
goes  on :  — 

To  leave  you  in  your  madness,  'twere  my  sin : 
I  -will  not. 

Immediately  his  punishment  comes.  '  How  can  you 
know  anything  about  madness }  Fools  are  not  mad 
folks.' 

The  author  (1.  58)  has  shown  Cloten  sensitive  over 
certain  words,  as  '  senseless,'  when  applied  to  himself. 
Cloten  was  once  a  boy,  and  had  probably  compan- 
ions ;  and  such  companions  sometimes  use  exceeding 
plainness  of  speech  toward  one  another.  At  any 
rate  Cloten  is  scandaHsed  over  the  possible  pertinence 
of  Imogen's  remark  :  — 

Do  you  call  me  fool? 

Imogen  is  not  dismayed  at  the  insult  she  is  conceived 


CYMBELINE  II.  iii  5 1 

to  have  uttered  against  the  heir  apparent  to  her 
throne.     She  will  not  budge  an  inch  :  — 

As  /  am  mad,  I  do. 

If  you'll  be  patient,  I'll  no  more  be  mad; 

That  cures  us  both. 

Then  comes  a  beautiful  reaction.  Having  discharged 
herself  of  the  long-sustained  burden,  and  made  her 
meaning  respecting  this  wife-wooer  plain  to  Cloten, 
Imogen  experiences  a  most  lively  concern  at  having 
been  forced  to  speak  her  mind.  '  I  am  much  sorry, 
sir,  you  put  me  to  forget  the  manners  of  a  lady 
by  meddling  with  words  that  cause  unpleasant  feel- 
ings ; '  — 

and  learn  now,  for  all, 
That  I,  which  know  my  heart,  do  here  pronounce, 
By  the  very  truth  of  it,  I  care  not  for  you, 
And  am  so  near  the  lack  of  charity  — 
To  accuse  myself — I  hate  you;   which  I  had  rather 
You  felt  than  make  't  my  boast. 

Did  ever  a  badgered  and  pestered  and  persecuted 
woman  show  such  consideration  before  to  a  Cloten 
boor.?  She  wants  everything  understood,  and  is 
anxious  even  to  make  her  tormentor  know  that,  were 
her  antipathy  less  acute,  she  would  tell  him  so. 

This  is  an  important  point  in  the  play.  Cloten  is 
the  heavy  villain  of  the  piece,  and  for  dramatic  and 
other  reasons  is  to  be  cut  off  by  a  violent   „,  .      ,. 

J  Cloten,  the 

death.     That  this  may  by  tolerated  by  the  heavy  vii- 
audience,  and  without  protest,  he  must  have  ^^"0^°^^^ 
in    some   way   forfeited    its    patience    and  violent 
charity  in  an  extreme  degree.     This  he  is  to     ^^  ' 
do  because  of  the  beastly  revenge  that  he  shall  plot 


52  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

against  Imogen.  That  he  may  determine  upon  a 
revenge  of  this  sort,  he  must  have  a  grievance.  That 
grievance  will  be  furnished  now.  Imogen's  unspar- 
ing literalness  and  '  verbalness '  of  speech  has  exas- 
perated Cloten.  He  feels  himself  virtually  the  ruler 
of  the  kingdom,  and  his  conceit,  as  we  have  seen,  is 
boundless.  He  must  needs  now,  in  retort,  attack 
Posthumus.  He  even  ventures  to  insinuate  to  Imogen 
that  the  marriage  which  she  pretends  to  with  her  hus- 
band is  no  more  binding  than  the  union  of  serfs,  —  a 
knot  that  ties  itself,  without  priestly  warrant  or  bless- 
ing. The  answer  he  gets  is  scathing  and 
heroine  pitilcss.  The  author  has  not  made  his  hero- 
piannedfor  j^^g  ^q  have  been  importuned  for  weeks  and 

this  trial.  ^ 

weeks  by  a  despicable  stepmother,  and  to  be 
harassed  here,  with  nerves  weakened  by  loss  of  sleep, 
and  especially  by  present  vexation  over  her  missing 
bracelet,  for  nothing.  Yet,  to  speak  more  justly,  he  has 
made  such  an  Imogen  from  the  start  as  could  not  be 
forced,  except  under  the  most  irritating  conditions,  to 
utter  anything  capable  of  embittering  a  Cloten. 
When  we  have  added  that  Shakespeare  has  also 
created  Cloten  such  as  he  is  on  purpose  to  evoke  the 
answer  (11.  1 29-141)  he  now  gets,  the  whole  is  said  :  — 

Profane  fellow ! 
Wert  thou  the  son  of  Jupiter  and  no  more 
But  what  thou  art  besides,  thou  wert  too  base 
To  be  his  groom.    Thou  wert  dignified  enough, 
Even  to  i\\Q  point  of  envy,  if  't  were  made 
Comparative  for  your  virtues,  to  be  styl'd 
The  under-hangman  of  his  kingdom,  and  hated 
For  being  preferred  so  well. 


CYMBELINE  II.  in  53 

Cloten.  The  south-fog  rot  him  ! 

Imogen.     He  never  can  meet  with  more  mischance  than  come 
To  be  but  nam' d  of  thee.     His  meatiest  garment 
That  ever  hath  but  clipped  his  body,  is  dearer 
In  my  respect  than  all  the  hairs  above  thee, 
Were  they  all  made  such  men. 

Here  Imogen,  aroused  as  we  shall  never  see  her 
aroused  again  in  the  play,  considers  the  interview 
with  her  wooer  ended.  Pisanio  enters,  and  is  ad- 
dressed, wholly  as  if  Cloten  were  not  present,  with 
reference  (11.  144-153)  to  being  'sprited  by  a  fool,' 
and  to  the  bracelet :  — 

it  was  thy  master's  ;    'shrew  me 
If  I  would  lose  it  for  a  revenue 
Of  any  king's  in  Europe.     I  do  think 
I  saw  't  this  morning  ;   confident  I  am 
Last  night  't  was  on  my  arm :   I  kiss'd  it. 
I  hope  it  be  not  gone  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I  kiss  aught  but  he. 

Cloten  hangs  about,  not  realising  yet  how  deeply  the 
shafts  have  pierced  :  — 

You  have  abus'd  me. 
His  meanest  garment ! 

Imogen.  Ay,  I  said  so,  sir. 

If  you  will  make  't  an  action,  call  witness  to  't. 

Cloten's  imbecile  and  spoiled-boy  whine  is  unmistak- 
able, '  I  will  inform  your  father.'  Imogen  is  so 
consummately  illumined  concerning  his  unmanliness, 
and  so  immeasurably  disgusted  touching  everything 
of  him  and  his,  that  she  cannot  but  retort,  — 

Your  mother,  too. 

Of  course  the  situation  has  dramatic  potency  in  the 
circumstances  that  Cloten  will  not  go,  but  forces  Imo- 


54  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

gen  to  leave  him  yet  standing  where  he  has  received 
his  hurt. 

But  Imogen !  Where  was  woman  more  sorely  tried, 
and  when  more  grand  in  dignity  and  strength  ?  Her 
blood  is  wholly  under  mastery,  her  ladylike  repose 
has  been  scarcely  ruffled.  And  she  will  apparently 
not  be  conscious,  when  all  is  over,  of  having  suffered 
any  strain. 

SCENE   IV 

Of  course  lachimo  is  speeding  back,  as  fast  as  sails 
can  carry  him,  to  Italy  and  Posthumus;  and  thither 
with  painful  forebodings  we  follow  him.  The  scene 
opens  again  at  Philario's  house,  where  we  find  the 
host  expressing  to  Posthumus  somewhat  of  his  con- 
cern lest  lachimo  win  the  wager.  Posthumus  asserts 
again,  in  his  unsophisticated  innocence  of  Italian 
treachery,  his  confidence  in  Imogen's  womanly  and 
wifely  integrity : — 

Fear  it  not,  sir,  I  would  I  were  so  sure 
To  win  the  King  as  I  am  bold  her  honour 
Will  remain  hers. 

'  By  the  way,'  ventures  Philario,  '  what  measures  are 
you  taking  to  concihate  the  King  ? '     Posthumus  ad- 
mits   that   he  is  merely  waiting.     Does  he 

Imogen  •' 

has  told       not  know  what  the  Queen  is  doing.-'     Can- 
Posthu-        not  he  divine  what  Imosren  is  enduring:  for 

mus  noth-         .  '^  " 

ing.  his  sake  .-*     No,  certainly ;  and  Imogen  has 

not  told  him.     No  whit  will  she  embitter  his 

exile  with  her  new  troubles.     She  is  Hving  loyally  a 

grand,  true  life,  and  she  does  not  grudge  the  sorrow 


CYMBELINE   II.  iv  55 

it  has  enforced.  She  would  not  Hve  less  large  and 
true  at  whatever  cost  of  pain. 

lachimo  appears.  The  presence  of  this  man,  fresh 
from  the  divine  Imogen,  makes  the  young  husband's 
heart  dance  with  pride.  We  easily  pardon  Posthumus 
(11.  30,  31)  his  note  of  challenge:  — 

I  hope  the  briefness  of  your  answer  made 
The  speediness  of  your  return. 

lachimo  gives  Posthumus  the  letters  written  by  Imo- 
gen that  night  the  trunk  was  by  her  side.  Breaking 
the  seals,  Posthumus  runs  through  them  provisionally. 
There  is  the  reference  to  lachimo's  visit;  there  are 
the  usual  pages  of  affection  and  devotion.  Posthumus 
puts  the  missives  aside  for  more  intimate  perusal. 

All  is  well  yet.  — 
Sparkless  this  stone  as  it  was  wont  ?     Or  is  't  not 
Too  dull  for  your  good  wearing? 

Posthumus  has  a  right,  an  infinite,  blessed  right  to 
say  this,  as  we  know  ;  and  his  fate  will  be  none  the 
worse  for  the  gird  at  what  he  feels  sure  is  lachimo's 
his  adversary's  defeat.  lachimo  has  too  strategy. 
stern  business  in  hand  to  care  for  Posthumus's  enthu- 
siasm. He  must  administer  his  evidence  in  such  a 
way  as  to  keep  Posthumus  from  divining  its  falseness. 
He  will  give  it  at  first  grudgingly,  as  if  he  were  violat- 
ing confidence.  After  he  has  made  his  victim  believe 
there  is  nothing  really  to  tell,  he  will  overwhelm  him 
with  the  bracelet  and  the  secret  mark,  and  make  him 
lose  his  head.     All  the  while  he  will  insolently,  as  his 


56  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

bride's  charmer  and  repudiator,  patronise  the  hus- 
band. All  this,  which  would  perhaps  have  failed 
with  an  Italian  lover,  easily  fools  Posthumus.  lach- 
imo  awkwardly  (11.  100-104)  overreaches  himself,  yet 
his  victim  does  not  see  :  — 

Sir  —  I  thank  her  —  that. 
She  stripp'd  it  from  her  arm.     I  see  her  yet : 
Her  pretty  action  did  outsell  her  gift, 
And  yet  enrich'd  it  too.     She  gave  it  me,  and  said 
She  prized  \i  once. 

To  one  who  has  discerned  the  lowest  significance 
of  Imogen's  nature,  this  is  most  preposterous.  The 
Imogen  story  provcs  too  much,  infinitely  too  much, 
would  have  g^^  poor  Posthumus,  already  stung  through 
always  the  and  through  by  the  Nessus  poison,  has  no 
bracelet.  ^j^  from  common  sense.  He  admits  to  in- 
tellectual belief  that  his  Imogen  has,  from  infatuation, 
given  away  his  bracelet  to  a  stranger.  Were  she  to 
have  fallen  to  the  lowest  levels  of  her  sex,  she  would 
have  clung  at  least  to  that.  Besides,  she  could  never 
have  been  hypnotised  into  saying  or  implying  that 
she  had  prized  it  once,  —  as  if  she  found  herself  in 
wonderment  that  she  could  have  ever  in  the  least 
cared  for  such  a  man  as  Posthumus. 

SCENE  v 

Is  not  the  preceding  scene  enough }  Why  should 
there  be  another } 

Let  us  not  be  scandalised  at  the  indelicacy  of  what 
is  here  set  down.  Shakespeare  was  at  such  pains  to 
say  his  meanings  in  a  refined  and  knightly  way  that 


CYMBELINE   II.  v  5/ 

he  could  never  have  dreamed  of  seeming  offensive 
to  anybody.     The  bishops  and  indeed  great  ^^^^ 
ladies   of    his   day   did   not   express   them-  change  in 
selves  upon  like    matters  in  more  guarded  s^hake-"*^^ 
language.     The  plot  requires  that  Posthu-  speare's 
mus  proceed  against  the  life  of  Imogen  ;  and    """* 
that  he  may  proceed  we  must  know  the  motives,  and 
the  secret  thoughts  and  knowledge  that  make  up  the 
motives,  of  his  resolution.     In  the  last  scene  he  is 
shown  as  despising,  repudiating,   loathing  his  bride. 
Maddened  by  the  insolent  gibes  of  lachimo,  and  from 
personal  humiliation,  he  is  prompted  for  the  moment 
to  some  sort  of  vengeance  for  the  injury  to  his  affec- 
tions.    But  Posthumus  is  not,  as  the  world  goes,  or 
went,  in  those  days,  selfish ;  otherwise  he  would  have 
basely  and  brutally  executed  his  first  impulse  (iv.  147- 
149)  for  revenge.     He  feels  now  but  the  need  of  pun- 
ishment for  her.     He  has  read  her  letters,  ^, 

'    The  mis- 

full  of  her  affection,  and  of  prayers  for  his  chief  of  the 
safe  return;  he  remembers  her  beautiful  face,  ^  "^' 
with  its  expression  of  serene  and  patient  fidelity,  and 
he  is  horrified  by  it  all.  If  she  had  not  written  !  If 
she  had  been  content  not  to  assume  such  delicacy  and 
modesty  and  devotion,  he  would  not  have  cared  so 
much.  But  one  so  exquisitely  false,  who  can  counter- 
feit goodness  so  consummately,  is  surely  unfit  to  live. 
To  punish  her  because  she  has  wronged  society,  be- 
cause she  is  its  one  chief  outlaw,  because  she  may 
wreck  other  lives  —  this,  if  he  could  have  analysed 
his  feelings,  would  have  been  the  motive  of  the  course 
proposed.     Othello,  a  much  greater  sufferer  because 


58  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

a  stronger  mind,  in  a  like  moment  had  said  (V.  ii.  6) 
of  Desdemona,  — 

Yet  she  must  die,  else  she'll  betray  more  men. 
Act  in 

SCENE  I 

The  clock  of  the  plot  moves  backward ;  we  are 
again  at  the  day  of  the  serenade.  The  Queen,  Cloten, 
The  K'  's  ^^^  Cymbeline  have  prepared  for  audience, 
policy  and,  with  the  court,  are  entered  in  state  to 
Rome  receive  Lucius  and  his  train.     The  King  is 

shaped  by  suffered  by  his  wife  and  her  son,  who  control 
e  gueen.  j^.^  policy,  to  Say  the  opening  words ;  but 
even  these,  in  their  curtness  and  in  their  lack  of 
greeting  and  formality,  seem  filled  with  the  animus 
of  petticoat  rule:  — 

Now  say,  what  would  Augustus  Caesar  with  us  ? 

The  answer  of  Lucius  is  stately  and  Romanesque. 
As  a  succinct  statement  of  the  reasons  of  his  being 
where  he  is,  and  of  the  illogical  predicament  in  which 
Britain  finds  itself,  it  is  a  model.  It  would  seem  that 
even  the  Queen  and  Cloten  could  have  scarcely  failed 
to  catch  the  lofty  tone  of  this  utterance,  and  would 
have  left  the  task  of  making  a  rejoinder  to  wiser 
minds.  But  the  Queen  cannot  suppress  (11.  lO,  ii) 
her  vixenish  temper  even  in  moments  of  state  :  — 

And,  to  kill  the  marvel, 
Shall  be  so  ever. 

The  imperial  ambassador  is  bound  of  course  to 
ignore  such  an  utterance  as  this,  and  is  not  again 


CYMBELINE  III.  i  59 

heard  from  for  fifty  lines.  Cloten  breaks  the  silence, 
and  speaks  the  best  paragraph  that  we  have  yet  had 
from  him  in  the  play.  There  is  silence  again  ;  and 
the  Queen  begins  perhaps  to  realise  the  situation.  In 
a  changed  spirit  she  essays  argument,  though  she 
does  not  think  well  to  address  much  of  it  to  the 
ambassador.  Cloten  follows  with  a  characteristic 
deliverance,  in  bald  prose,  which  calls  forth  a  sort  of 
domestic  protest  from  the  King.  To  this,  however, 
Cloten  pays  not  the  slightest  attention.  After  he  has 
said  his  utmost  say,  and  published,  by  dialect  and 
manner,  his  intellectual  vulgarity,  Cymbeline  ventures 
(11.  47-54)  a  milder  explanation  of  the  present 
policy :  — 

You  must  know, 
Till  the  injurious  Romans  did  extort 
This  tribute  from  us,  we  were  free.     Csesar's'ambition, 
Which  swell'd  so  much  that  it  did  almost  stretch 
The  sides  o'  the  world,  against  all  colour  here 
Did  put  the  yoke  upon  's;   which  to  shake  off 
Becomes  a  warlike  people,  whom  we  reckon 
Ourselves  to  be. 

This  reminds  us  of   the  Queen's  talk,   and  Cloten 
assents  to  it  as  if  it  were  a  deliverance  of  his  dam. 
Cymbeline   next,   after   apparently   a    Uttle 
waiting,  formulates  his  reply.      It  is  kingly  logue 
and   noble,  though   scarcely   strong.     Now  6'^°*^ 
that  the  real  sovereign  of  Britain  has  spoken, 
while    parvenu   voices    are   effectually  stilled,   Rome 
voices  her  dread  decree.     So  the  scene  is  lifted  to 
the   tiUe  plane   of    princely  intercourse.      There   is 
but  one  further  jarring  note,  while  Cloten,  with  the 


60  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

informality  of  a  hostler  of  the  King's  stables,  attempts 
to  enlarge  the  hospitality  of  the  court. 

This  scene  introduces  new  action.  Italy  and 
Britain  are  to  be  drawn  together  in  a  war;  and  this 
will  in  some  way  bring  home  Posthumus.  It  is  a 
mad  step,  which  Shakespeare,  in  fixing  the  character 
of  the  King's  household,  was  obliged  to  prepare  for 
early.  Neither  the  Queen  nor  Cloten  has  the  slightest 
conception  of  the  power  that  they  are  defying. 

SCENE  II 

The  feelings  of  horror,  and  indignation,  and  wounded 
affection,  which  we  saw  at  riot  in  poor  Posthumus, 
as  the  last  act  closed,  have  expressed  themselves 
in  action.  Letters  have  come  from  Italy  to  Pisanio. 
The  one  from  his  master  to  himself,  this  servant  has 
stopped,  in  his  eagerness,  to  break  seal  and  read 
before  delivering  its  companion  missive  to  his  mis- 
tress. The  scene  opens  with  Pisanio's  consequent 
ejaculations  of  amazement.  The  notion  of  Imogen, 
who  undergoes  daily  torture  for  constancy,  unfaith- 
ful ;  the  thought  of  the  chivalrous  gentleman  whom 
all  the  court  have  loved  to  call  Leonatus,  the  lion- 
natured,  pretending  to  have  evidence  against  his 
bride;  the  command  to  put  Imogen,  a  princess,  to 
death,  without  public  understanding,  really  by  mur- 
der,—  these  things  upset  Pisanio's  staid  and  well- 
ordered  disposition.  He  is  angry  (11.  15-17)  that  his 
master  assumes  him  capable  of  such  a  commis- 
sion :  — 


CYMBELINE   III.  ii  6 1 

How  look  I, 
That  I  should  seem  to  lack  humanity 
So  much  as  this  fact  comes  to? 

Posthumus  is  no  paragon  of  manliness ;  of  that  we 
have  had  evidence  before.  We  are  not  surprised  that 
he  proposes  to  pursue  his  revenge  by  indirections :  — 

Do  't  :  the  letter 
That  I  have  sent  her,  by  her  own  command 
Shall  give  thee  opportunity. 

We  are  glad  not  to  hear  the  further  contents  of  this 
letter.  The  one  to  Imogen,  which  lies  beside  it,  all- 
loving  no  doubt,  is  then  couched  in  terms  that  will 
mislead  her,  and  put  her  in  his  servant's  power.  No 
wonder  he  is  tempted  to  withhold,  perhaps  indeed 
destroy,  the  'fedary  for  this  act  that  looks  so  inno- 
cent without' 

Imogen  is  not  long  in  coming  to  the  summons ; 
and,  shame  of  shames,  she  is  in  high  spirits  this  morn- 
ing. When  Pisanio  demurely  hands  over  to  her  the 
letter,  she  archly  takes  him  to  task  for  claiming  Pos- 
thumus to  himself :  — 

Who?     Thy  lord?     That  is  my  lord,  Leonatus ! 

Glancing  at  the  superscription,  to  make  sure,  before 
she  opens,  that  it  is  her  husband's  hand,  she  delays 
that  she  may  exhaust  the  joys  of  anticipation.  This 
is  the  red-letter  day  of  many  weeks  of  watching. 
She  stops  even  to  voice  to  the  gods  her  wish  as  to 
the  message.  Then,  as  she  breaks  the  seals,  her 
aroused  mind  comments  reahsingly  upon  the  wax, 
how  otherwise  it  could  be  used ;  for  always  must  she 


62  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

pursue  a  text  like  this  to  its  remainders.  Then  she 
runs  quick  through  the  contents  to  see  that  all  is 
well.  Assured  that  there  is  no  ill  news,  she  reads  it 
(11.  40-49)  aloud  to  Pisanio  in  detail :  — 

Justice,  and  your  father's  wrath,  should  he  take 
me  in  his  dominion,  could  not  be  so  cruel  to  me,  as 
you,  O  the  dearest  of  creatures,  would  even  renew 
me  with  your  eyes.  Take  notice  that  I  am  in  Cam- 
bria, at  Milford  Haven.  What  your  own  love  will 
out  of  this  advise  you,  follow. 

So    Posthumus    assumes    his   wife's    affection   for 
himself,  just  as  of  old,  in  this  plan  to  destroy 

Posthumus  '  ■•  '  .^  .  -' 

assumes       her  life.     He  has  taken  pains  to  be  enig- 
hiswifes      niatic,  apparently  for  conscience'  sake,  yet 
he  affirms  his  love.    Of  course  there  can  be 
but  one  effect  of  such  a  letter :  — 

O,  for  a  horse  with  wings ! 

Pisanio  shows  no  enthusiasm  at  the  news,  and  is 
undoubtedly  much  dismayed  lest  he  betray  the  real 
state  of  his  feelings  about  the  letter,  Imogen  thinks 
him  merely  slow  :  — 

Hear^sl  thou,  Pisanio  ? 
He  is  at  Milford  Haven  / 

Her  excitement  is  naive  and  beautiful,  yet  not  one 
jot  beyond  control.  She  would  fain  pet  her  serving- 
man,  that  he  may  speak  his  counsels  thickly,  and 
thus  estop,  for  her,  the  sense  of  lapsing  time.  How 
far  it  is  to  Milford,  and  how  Wales  ever  became  so 
happy  as  to  inherit  the  haven  where  her  husband 
has    landed,    and   how   they    may   steal    away,   how 


CYMBELINE  III.  ii  63 

explain  their  return  and  absence,  —  all  these  items 
press  upon  her  mind.  She  knows  how  fast  men 
ordinarily  ride,  but  it  seems  to  her  that  there  should 
be  means  of  covering  even  several  scores  of  miles 
'twixt  hour  and  hour. 

Pisanio,  under  other  circumstances,  would  aid  her ; 
he  cannot  assist  the  horrible  delusion.  So,  after  the 
few  minutes  of  ebullition,  she  discards  in  advance  all 
his  advice,  with  (11.  75-79)  her  mind  made  up :  — 

But  this  is  foolery. 
Go  bid  my  woman  feign  a  sickness,  say 
She'll  home  to  her  father;   and  provide  me  presently 
A  riding  suit,  no  costlier  than  would  fit 
A  franklin's  housewife. 

Pisanio  is  not  much  inclined  to  stir,  and  even  hints 
that  he  is  not  at  all  of  her  mind.  Then  he  gets  his 
orders : — 

Away,  I  prithee. 
Do  as  /  bid  thee.     There  is  no  more  to  say. 

So  this  domestic  noblewoman,  who  would  not  have 
thought  of  running  away  when  the  play  opens,  is 
unconsciously  ready  for  such  a  step.  Now  that 
Posthumus,  after  these  months  of  absence,  has  come 
to  see  her,  and  calls  for  her,  she  will  go  to  him. 
Thus,  too,  has  the  author  invented  means,  and  skil- 
fully enough,  of  bringing  Imogen  away  from  her 
father's  court. 


64  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 


SCENE   III 


The  scene  shifts  to  Wales,  whither  the  author 
makes  us  precede  Imogen  and  Pisanio.  It  is  an  un- 
broken wilderness,  and  the  trees  on  the  rocky  slopes 
shine  in  the  morning  dew.  From  the  mouth  of  a 
cave  over  against  us  three  figures,  new  to  the  play, 
emerge.  They  are  evidently  mountaineers,  though 
they  do  not  wear  mean  clothing.  The  first 
ier  moun-  to  appear  is  a  man  past  middle  life,  with 
taineers.  j^^^^  white  beard.  The  two  young  men 
who,  stooping  under  the  low  entrance,  follow  him 
are  twenty  years  old  and  upwards.  We  note  at 
once  the  singular  refinement  and  strength  in  the 
speech  of  these  cave-dwellers.  They  should  be 
men  of  action,  but  they  seem  scholars,  philosophers. 
The  fatherly  figure,  Belarius,  is  unwilHng  surely  to 
let  slip  an  opportunity  of  drawing  moral  lessons  :  — 

Consider, 
When  you  above  perceive  me  like  a  crow, 
That  it  is  place  which  lessens  and  sets  off. 

Belarius  has  evidently  seen  the  world,  while  his 
two  wards  have  not.  This  soon  comes  out  unequivo- 
cally in  the  dialogue.  Belarius  has  lived  somewhere 
at  court,  undoubtedly  then  at  Cymbeline's ;  the  lads 
have  never  winged  from  view  of  their  cavern  nest. 
Guiderius  repines  at  the  inaction  of  the  life  they  lead, 
but  implies  that  there  is  something  that  keeps  them 
from  attempting  the  larger  walks  without.  Arvira- 
gus  too  speaks  as  if  he  and  his  companion  expected 
to  grow  old  Uke  their  keeper  in  this  cave. 


CYMBELINE   III.  iv  65 

It  becomes  evident  that  the  author  is  making  these 
characters  talk  thus  for  our  benefit.     It  is  scarcely- 
probable  that  Belarius  would  tell  his  wards  his  story 
on  this  particular  morning  of  all  the  year,   shake- 
But  Shakespeare  is  not  taking  pains  in  this  speare 

,  ,  I'll-  •  1     •       1  takes  pains 

play  except  when  he  is  dealmg  with  its  hero-  only  with 
ine.  He  makes  Belarius  tell  us  enough  of  his  heroine. 
his  past  to  establish  connection  with  the  preceding 
part  of  the  drama,  and  then  sends  the  boys  away 
that  he  may  impart  needful  information  ^  , 
concerning  them.  They  prove  to  be  the  line's  Latin 
sons  of  CymbeUne,  Guiderius  being  elder  *^^^^^' 
and  heir  to  the  crown.  This  revelation  was  prepared 
for  in  the  opening  dialogue  (I.  i.  57-61)  of  the  play. 
Even  the  name  of  the  nurse,  Euriphile,  who  stole  the 
princes,  is  worked  in.  It  seems  that  Cymbeline,  who 
had  lived  at  Rome,  and  whom  Augustus  admitted  to 
knighthood,  affected  southern  tastes,  and  gave  his 
sons  Latin  names.  Belarius,  intolerant  of  such  de- 
generacy, has  exchanged  these,  as  also  his  own  name, 
for  supposed  Celtic  ones.  Shakespeare  apparently 
was  not  aware  that  *  Polydore '  was  derived  from 
Greek.  He  certainly  knew  some  Latin,  yet  not 
enough  to  remember  that  the  name  of  his  hero  must 
be  accented  on  the  first  and  not  the  second  syllable. 

SCENE   IV 

Imogen  and  Pisanio  have  ridden  across  Britain,  two 
hundred  miles  more  or  less,  and  they  are  now  almost 
in  sight  of  Milford  harbour.  We  know  from  Imogen's 
first  words  that  Pisanio  has  revealed  nothing.     We 


66  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

can  guess  that  she  has  been  so  overjoyed  at  the  pros- 
pect of  seeing  her  husband,  and  so  delectably  impe- 
rious in  hurrying  her  compdnion  forward,  that  he  has 
not  had  the  heart  to  tell  her  that  it  is  all  a  hoax.  So 
far  Posthumus's  plot  has  succeeded  well,  at  least  for 
the  play ;  Imogen  has  been  drawn  away  from  the 
court  by  her  husband's  lure.  There  are  reasons,  we 
may  suspect,  why  the  author  needs  to  have  Imogen 
out  of  the  capital,  and  perhaps  in  the  wilderness,  at 
this  time. 

Pisanio,  when  Imogen  turns  toward  him,  shows 
deep  trouble  on  his  face.  At  once  she  infers  that 
harm  has  come  to  Posthumus,  that  he  is  not  here :  — 

Pisanio !  man ! 
Where  is  Posthumus  ? 

Pisanio  does  not  expect  such  summary  calling  to  ac- 
count. He  is  speechless,  and  looks  fixedly  before 
him.  Imogen's  anxiety  increases  ;  she  asks  him  why 
he  stares.  He  is  accustomed  to  obedience,  but  he 
cannot  bring  himself  to  answer  anything.  He  sighs, 
Imogen's  ^ud  Imogen  begs  him  to  put  himself  into  a 
dismay.  haviour  of  less  fear,  or  she  shall  lose  her 
mind.  There  is  silence  yet,  and  she  importunes  him 
once  more  to  declare  what  makes  his  agitation.  He 
can  do  nothing  but  give  her  the  letter,  the  second  of 
the  two  (III.  ii.  17-19)  letters, — if  there  were  two, 
in  which  his  master  has  ordained  the  killing. 

Imogen,  seeing  the  address  in  her  husband's  hand, 
and  feeHng  herself  unequal  to  sustaining  the  calamity 
that  she  is  sure  has  befallen  him,  if  she  reads  of  it 


CYMBELINE   III.  iv  6/ 

herself,  prays  Pisanio  to  break  it  to  her  gently.  Pi- 
sanio  implies  that  it  is  not  she  but  himself  whom  the 
letter  concerns  mainly,  and  at  this  she  reads  it  aloud. 
Thus  the  author,  who  wishes  us  to  hear  it  in  detail, 
saves  Pisanio  from  making  known  the  indictment, 
which  it  contains,  to  his  mistress's  ears. 

Well,  what  has  happened  .''  There  is  no  swoon  or  out- 
cry ;  there  is  but  silence,  and  the  pathetic  collapse  of 
an  endeavour  to  respond  to  her  husband's  call.    There 
is  but  Uttle,  even,  of  indignation.     Instead  of  Posthu- 
mus  dead,  or  in  extremity,  from  the  King's  officers, 
in  Wales,  it  is  herself  who  is  wounded,  pursued,  for- 
lorn.    In  perfect  self-possession  she  realises  ij^gge^ 
to  herself  the  contradiction  of  her  constancy,  cannot 
and  this  casting-off.     She  can  reach  no  least  ,j.mh. 
suspicion   of  the  reasons ;    she   remembers 
lachimo,  but  her  woman's  intuition  finds  in  him  no  clew. 

She  theorises,  of  course,  but  wildly,  —  as  if  Pos- 
thumus,  fallen  from  his  integrity,  should  wish  to 
destroy  her  for  being  true.  And  just  as  he,  believ- 
ing her  false,  has  repudiated  all  her  sex,  so  she,  for 
the  moment,  persuades  herself  that  all  good-seeming 
in  men  is  counterfeit,  put  on  to  inveigle  ladies. 

But  Imogen,  for  all  her  scorn,  does  not  rail  against 
Posthumus  for  his  low  birth ;  she  does  not  remember 
it  indeed  against  him.     Her  devotion,  even   , 

°  Imogen 

at  this  moment,  is  sublime.  Just  as  Desde-  does  not 
mona  accepted  death  from  her  husband's  po"thuf 
hands,  without   calling   for   rescue,    so   she  mus's  low 


birth. 


here,  drawing  Pisanio's  sword,  pleads  for  the 

stroke.     There  is  nothing  to  live  for  now.     Pisanio 


68  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

flings  his  rapier  deep  into  the  forest,  to  show  her  how 
he  regards  her  husband's  order.  But  she  assumes 
still  that  it  will  be  obeyed,  and  prepares  her  bosom 
for  Pisanio's  dagger.  She  finds  something,  for- 
gotten for  the  moment,  before  her  heart,  —  the  letter 
of  Posthumus  which  has  allured  her  away  from  all 
protection  to  this  doom.  She  throws  away  this 
letter,  which  later  Pisanio  takes  up.  She  is  calm 
now :  — 

And  thou,  Posthumus,  thou  that  didst  set  up 
My  disobedience  'gainst  the  King  my  father, 
And  make  me  put  into  contempt  the  suits 
Of  princely  fellows,  shalt  hereafter  find 
It  is  no  act  of  common  passage,  but 
A  strain  of  rareness. 

She  feels  no  jealousy,  but  grieves  to  think  how  Pos- 
thumus will  one  day  regret  and  suffer. 

But  this  scene  is  not  a  study  of  Imogen  ;  all  that 
has  thus  far  happened  is  of  course.  The  author's 
Imogen  purposc  is  mainly  to  advance  the  plot.  In 
willing  to  a  few  minutes  of  further  dialogue,  Imogen 
go  o  tay.  ]3gj-]^jj^j^g  hcrsclf  that  there  can  be  no  return, 
now,  to  the  court.  Pisanio  is  made,  moreover,  to 
have  divined  that  his  mistress  could  be  induced 
after  the  revelation  just  made  to  go  in  disguise  to 
Italy  and  find  out  the  truth.  The  rest  of  the  scene 
is  devoted  to  the  evolution  of  this  turn.  First,  Pi- 
sanio proposes  to  report  her  as  murdered  to  her  hus- 
band. He  then  brings  her  to  the  thought  of  exile, 
and  after  'of  treading  a  course  pretty  and  full  of 
view ' :  — 


CYMBELINE  III.  v  69 

yea,  haply,  near 
The  residence  of  Posthumus,  —  so  nigh  at  least 
That  though  his  actions  were  not  visible,  yet 
Report  should  render  him  hourly  to  your  ear 
As  truly  as  he  moves. 

Perhaps  Pisanio  was  really  acute  enough  to  govern 
Imogen's  motives  thus ;  but  we  suspect  Shakespeare 
is  hastening  to  his  conclusion,  and,  by 
poetic  liberty,  enlarging  Pisanio  to  fit  the  speare 
need.  With  the  new-aroused  desire  in  his  crowds  the 
mistress  to  see  Posthumus,  he  will  overweigh 
her  scruples  against  the  page's  clothes.  These  — 
sword,  doublet,  hat,  hose,  all  that  answer  to  them  — 
he  has  in  fulness  of  faith  provided  and  brought  into 
the  wilderness  with  him.  He  needs  beyond  but  to 
steady  the  plan  with  the  suggestion  of  service  in 
Lucius's  train,  and  to  commit  to  his  mistress's  hands 
the  panacea  that  he  had  some  months  back  from  the 
Queen.  He  will  not  wait  to  escort  his  charge  all  the 
way  to  Milford  town ;  he  will  but  show  her  a  view  of 
it  from  the  nearest  hill.  Time  urges ;  and  he  would 
but  run  the  risk  of  identification,  by  the  King's  offi- 
cers, should  he  venture  nearer. 

SCENE  v 

The  ambassador  Lucius  has  been  pleasantly 
entertained,  and  delays  departure.  Pisanio  has 
returned,  and    finds    him    not    yet  set    out. 

.  .  •'  Lucius  will 

This  will  bring  disappointment,  and,  we  fear,   not  reach 


Milford 
Haven  ti 

in  Wales.     At   last    Lucius   is   ready,    and  morrow. 


hardship,  to  the  princess  who  has  been  left   „ 

'■  '■  Haven  to- 


70  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

takes  leave  of  Cymbeline.  The  Queen  shrewishly 
twits  the  King  of  slowness,  — 

'tis  not  skepy  business,  — 

but  he  responds  with  an  answer  of  high-bred  mild- 
ness. Then  the  father  recalls  that  Imogen  '  has  not 
appeared  before  the  Roman,  nor  tendered  a  daugh- 
ter's duty.'  He  will  have  her  called  sternly  to 
account.     But  the  Queen  interposes,  — 

Beseech  your  majesty, 
Forbear  sharp  speeches  to  her. 

The  Queen  knows  that  the  King  really  loves  Imo- 
gen, and  that  harshness,  such  as  proposed,  may  end 
in  a  reconciliation.  The  report  now  comes  that  the 
princess's  doors  are  locked,  and  that  she  has  not 
been  seen  of  late.  The  King  hurries  out  to  find  his 
daughter ;  and  the  Queen,  to  be  sure  of  what  shall 
happen  between  them,  sends  Cloten  after.  She  is 
convinced  that  Imogen  is  either  dead  of  '  despair ' 
or  fled.  She  does  not,  we  notice,  think  evil  of  her 
prisoner  for  running  away,  or  rail  at  her  for  being  a 
hypocrite  or  violating  the  implied  parole. 

The  author  begins  next  the  important  business  of 
getting  Cloten  to  follow  Imogen  to  Milford  Haven. 
Cloten  Cloten  is  made  to  mention  the  revenge  again 
must  follow  to  us,  lest  we  forget,  for  the  moment,  about 
Imogen.  j^jg  grievance.  Pisanio,  just  at  this  juncture, 
happens  in.  Cloten  considers  him  {cf.  1.  54  above) 
an  old  man,  and  presumably  out  of  practice  with  the 
rapier,  so  pursues  him  threateningly  with  his  own 
weapon  drawn.     The  result  is  that  Pisanio  finds  no 


CYMBELINE   III.  v  7 1 

better  expedient  than  to  give  over  the  letter  of  Pos- 
thumus,  which  has  called  Imogen  away,  and  which, 
spurned  by  her,  he  has  just  brought  back  from  the 
wilderness.  This  pleases  Cloten,  and  makes  him 
think  that  Pisanio  is  ready,  at  last,  to  change  mas- 
ters. Rather  strangely,  Pisanio  consents  to  enter 
Cloten's  service.  He  probably  understands  that, 
with  Imogen  gone  from  court,  and  reunited  to  her 
husband,  it  will  be  well  to  have  a  patron,  and  one 
belonging  to  the  King's  party.  The  real  necessity, 
however,  for  this  transfer  of  allegiance,  as  we  soon 
see,  lies  in  the  plot.  For  some  reason,  later  to  be 
known,  the  piece  requires  that  Cloten  should 

.  r  •  1  Why  Pisa- 

come  mto  possession  of  certam  garments  be-  nio  made 

longing  to  Posthumus.     To  secure  these  for  ^^   change 

"  masters. 

Cloten,  accordmg  to  the  verities  of  the  case, 

the  author  must  use  Pisanio's  aid.     And,  after   all, 

Pisano's  spirit  is  not  much  different  from  what  might 

be  expected  in  one  accustomed  to  service  in  kings' 

houses. 

Cloten,  as  we  have  divined,  is  to  be  sacrificed ;  so 
the  author  beats  about  for  means  that  will  enforce 
our   consent   to  that   part  of   his   purpose. 

Tx       .  -1  .    ,         r     ,  •       The  use  of 

He  IS  not  very  considerate  certainly  of  this  the  assault 
character :  he  might  have  made  it  less  re-  '"  *^*  ^'■^' 

scene. 

volting.  We  now  see  why  Cloten  was  made 
to  draw  upon  Posthumus  in  the  first  scene.  It  makes 
Cloten's  present  presumption,  that  he  can  easily  disarm 
and  kill  Posthumus  at  Milford  Haven,  where  he  ex- 
pects to  force  him  to  a  new  encounter,  credible.  Pi- 
sanio now  enters,  with  the  clothing  of  his  late  master, 


72  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

which  the  author  evidently  intends  to  have  us  see, 
with  reference  probably  to  some  later  identification. 
Pisanio  shows,  by  his  deft  evasion,  — 

She  can  scarce  be  there  yet,  — 

how  well  he  has  learned,  in  his  long  years  of  service, 
to  prevaricate  squarely,  yet  avoid  to  conscience  all 
the  effect  of  lying.  The  scene  ends  with  a  word 
from  Pisanio,  to  save  us  worry  about  our  heroine's 
safety,  and  to  show  that  he  is  still  at  heart  all  loyal 
to  her  and  her  husband. 

SCENE  VI 

Imogen  has  found  herself  unable  to  reach  the  arm 
of  the  sea  that  Pisanio  pointed  out  to  her  from  the 
hill.  She  has  wandered  around  and  around,  over  her 
own  tracks,  thoroughly  bewildered.  She  was  worn 
out  with  court  vexations  and  ennui  before  starting  on 
the  hurried  jaunt  that  brought  her  here.  The  anguish 
since  undergone,  the  hardship  of  two  nights  spent 
without  protection  in  the  wilderness,  what  with 
hunger  and  despair,  have  well-nigh  exhausted  her 
Imogen  Strength  and  courage.  She  yet  rallies,  and 
confides       tramps  onward,  when  Posthumus  comes  to 

yet   in  ^ 

Posthu-        her  mind.     He  has  had  such  an  influence 


mus. 


upon  her  life  that  she  believes  instinctively 
in  him  still.  Her  reason  has  been  persuaded  against 
him  ;  her  heart  yet  finds  him  true. 

So  she  stumbles  upon  the  path  leading  to  the  cave 
that,  a  few  hours  back,  we  saw  Belarius  and  her 
brothers  leave.     It  seems  clearly  enough   the   hold 


CYMBELINE  III.  vi  73 

of  savage  folk.  But  she  must  have  help,  soon,  even 
from  savage  folk,  if  she  is  to  live.  We  know  her 
business-like,  matter-of-fact  way  of  dealing  with  an 
emergency,  — 

I  were  best  not  call ;   I  dare  not  call ; 

yet  she  sends  her  piping,  treble  voice,  as  stalwartly 
as  she  can,  in  challenge  to  the  cave-keepers.  For 
she  is  now,  we  must  remember,  clad  in  doublet  and 
hose,  the  page  ostensibly  of  some  nobleman.  So 
she  calls  as  to  mine  host  before  an  hostelry :  — 

Ho  !  who's  here  ? 

Then  lowering  her  tones,  she  adds  to  herself :  — 

If  anything  that's  civil,  speak;   if  savage. 
Take  or  lend. 

After  challenging  again,  without  response,  she  pre- 
pares at  once  to  enter.  There  is  plenty  of  flutter  in 
the  pulses,  but  that  does  not  hinder.  Remembering 
that  she  wears  a  sword,  and  that  a  man  would  draw 
it  resolutely  at  such  a  moment,  she  pulls  it  falteringly, 
and  with  a  smile  at  the  absurdity  of  proposing  to  run 
down  the  occupants,  out  of  the  scabbard.  Then  she 
disappears  within  the  cave. 

The  author  means  to  make  clear  to  us  that  Guide- 
rius  is  the  more  active  and  martial  of  the  brothers :  — 

You,  Polydore,  have  prov'd  best  woodman,  and 

Are  master  of  the  feast.     Cadwal  and  I 

Will  play  the  cook  and  servant;   'tis  our  match. 

The  talk  of  the  hunters,  as  they  approach  the  cave 
with  their  game,  startles  the  quiet  of  the  place ;  but 
their  guest  within  seems  not  to  hear.     Belarius,  pre- 


74  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

paring  to  enter,  a  little  afterward,  sees  the  little 
fairy-like  page,  clad  in  court  garments,  and  eating 
some  portion  as  in  famisiiment  from  the  feast  of 
yesterday.  Belarius  has  seen  no  such  grace  and  ele- 
gance for  a  score  of  years.  Such  beauty  of  face  he 
has  never  seen  at  all,  for  no  daughter  had  yet  been 
born  to  Cymbeline  when  he  fled  into  the  wilderness 
with  these  boys.  Imogen,  hearing  the  voices,  comes 
out  from  the  cave.  She  has  never  in  her  life  been  a 
trespasser,  or  done  a  wrong  to  anybody ;  and  beauti- 
ful is  her  dismay  when  she  finds,  instead  of  savages, 
great-browed  and  noble-featured  folk  to  reckon  with. 
Forgetting  her  boldness  and  her  sword,  she  throws 
Imogen,  hcrsclf  upon  the  mercy  of  these  men  with  a 
tried,  to       simplicity  and  delicacy  never  bred  in  her  by 

bring  out 

her  fine  the  Kmg's  tutors.  She  is  wholly  f  ascinatmg 
nature.  ^q  ^]^g  boys,  and  to  ourselves.  It  is  at  once 
evident  that  Shakespeare  has  brought  her  away  from 
the  court  to  her  brothers,  that  she  may  exhibit  a  more 
fundamental  and  complete  queenliness  than  she  could 
have  achieved  at  home.  What  could  be  more  ethe- 
reahsed,  angelic,  than  this  plea  ? 

Good  mdiSteTs,  harm  me  not ! 
Before  I  entered  here,  I  calPd,  and  thought 
To  have  begg'd  or  bought  what  I  have  took.     Good  troth, 
I  have  stoVn  nought,  nor  would  not,  though  I  had  found 
Go/d  strew'd  i'  the  floor.     Here's  money  for  my  meat. 
I  would  have  left  it  on  the  board  so  soon 
As  I  had  made  my  meal,  and  parted 
With  prayers  for  the  provider. 

The  contempt  of  these  royal  lads  for  the  gold  that 
Imogen  has  taken  from  her  purse,  she  mistakes  for 


CYMBELINE  III.  vi  75 

anger.  But  there  is  no  selfish  insistence  or  self- 
assertion  against  it.  Meaner  minds  sometimes  affirm 
that  the  world  owes  them  a  living.  This  woman,  who 
has  forgotten  that  she  is  heir  to  the  whole  of  Britain, 
would  have  starved  rather  than  touch  the  food  of 
these  men,  knowing  that  they  would  withhold  con- 
sent. Here,  Shakespeare  would  have  us  recognise, 
is  a  kingly  scene,  though  not  enacted  within  arras- 
covered  walls. 

The  boys  are  quite  too  absolute  for  this  emergency; 
it  is  Belarius  who  turns  the  subject.  There  is  nothing 
suspicious  in  her  answer  that  she  is  bound  for  Milford 
Haven.  Noblemen  and  noblemen's  servants  were 
passing  to  and  from  this  seaport  town  continually. 
Then  it  is  brought  out  that  Imogen  believes  that,  by 
her  two  days'  delay,  she  has  lost  her  chance  of  going 
to  her  husband.  The  '  kinsman  '  of  course  is  Lucius, 
whom  for  discretion  she  feels  it  best  not  to  name:  — 

I  have  a  kinsman  who 
Is  bound  for  Italy.     He  embark'd  at  Milford; 
To  whom  being  going,  almost  spent  with  hunger, 
I  am  fall'n  in  this  offence. 

The  open  hint  of  hunger,  which  she  has  not  made 
clear  before,  awakes  Belarius  to  a  better  show  of 
hospitality.     The  boys,  who  have  for  some    . 

.  ,  .,  ,  1  .  .  Arviragus 

time  been  silent,  break  out  into  protestations  has  imagi- 
of  enthusiasm.     Guiderius  is  like  his  sister,  nation;  but 

Guiderms 

and  would  do  offices  for  the  beautiful  guest,  is  like  his 
—  would   woo    hard   but   to    be    a    groom.   ^'^*^'"' 
Arviragus,  on    the    contrary,  has   imagination,   such 
as  Imogen  is  unprovided  with  :  — 


76  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

I'll  make  't  >ny  comfort 
He  is  a  man.     I'll  love  him  as  my  brother  ; 
And  stick  a  welcome  as  I'ld  give  to  him, 
After  long  absence,  such  is  yours.     Most  welcome  ! 
Be  sprightly,  for  you  fall  'mongst  friends. 

What  a  surprising  change  to  the  perplexed  prin- 
cess !  These  men  are  more  refined  and  chivalrous 
than  courtiers.  Has  Imogen  ever  seen  such  genuine- 
ness and  simplicity  before.?  At  any  rate,  it  is  all 
utterly  fascinating  to  her.  She  wrings  her  hands,  as 
she  realises  how  easily  Posthumus  might  have  been 
hers,  if  her  rank  had  but  been  the  same  as  theirs. 
That  we  may  know  more  fully  her  indifference  to 
privilege,  and  her  power  of  appreciating  worth  in 
whatever  humble  guises,  the  author  makes  Bela- 
rius  whisper  to  the  boys,  and  thus  enable  Imogen  to 
talk  in  an  aside.  She  avers  that  the  greatest  men 
she  has  ever  known,  if  reduced  to  courts  no  bigger 
than  the  cave,  and  forced  to  furnish  service  to  them- 
selves, could  not  outpeer  these  twain. 

Pardon  me,  gods ! 
I'd  change  my  sex  to  be  companion  to  them, 
Since  Leonatus  's  false. 

She  cannot  but  recur,  at  times,  to  Posthumus's  revolt ; 
but  she  does  not  remember  her  resolve  to  hold  all 
Shake-  men  false  henceforth.  And  she  would 
f^^'^'^'^  vh  S^^^^^y  1^^^  ^^  companionship  with  men  so 
of  the  cav-  truc.  But  the  scene,  which  the  author  has 
ernhome.  ^^^  hurried,  is  now  wound  up.  Belarius 
begs  that  his  page-guest  come  within.  Imogen,  who 
must  always  begin  where  she  has  left  off,  hesitates, 


CYMBELINE   IV.  i  7/ 

thinking  of  her  trespass.  But  Guiderius  pleads,  and 
Arviragus  supports  him  in  an  Apollo  strain, — 

The  night  to  the  owl  and  morn  to  the  lark  less  welcome. 

Imogen  yields  presently,  and,  ushered  by  the  younger 
brother,  enters.  But  Shakespeare  keeps  the  interior 
of  the  cavern  from  our  view. 

SCENE  VII 


The  object  of  this  scene  is  mainly  to  show  how 
lachimo  will  be  brought  into  the  British  wars. 
Posthumus  possibly  may  be  drawn  along,  al- 

,,,,•/•  -If  lachimo  to 

though  he  has  little  interest  now  in  the  late  be  brought 
of  Cymbehne.     To  save  the  time  of  the  play,  ^y  "^^  ^^"^ 

■'  ^     ''       to  Britain. 

the  author  makes  Augustus  issue  to  Lucius 
his  commission,  and  ordain  the  reenforcements  from 
Italy,  before  Cymbeline's  answer  arrives  from  Britain. 
This  is  of  course  a  license,  but  scarcely  mars,  when 
noted,  the  effect  of  the  play.  We  should  of  course 
bear  in  mind  that  Shakespeare  does  not  do  such 
things  in  Lear  or  Othello,  or  like  plays  written  with 
superior  care. 

Act  IV 

SCENE   1 

Cloten  is  shown  here  to  have  reached  Wales,  and 
to  be  in  search  of  Imogen  and  Posthumus.  We 
need  this  evidence  before  seeing  him  in  a  succeeding 
situation.  He  is  made  to  give  evidence  of  the  old 
brutishness,  and  the  old  conceit,  with  the  added 
presumption  of  immunity,  through  his  mother,  for 
his  crimes. 


78  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

SCENE  II 

It  is  again  early  morning.  Belarius  and  his  wards 
must  go  out,  as  is  their  habit,  to  the  chase.  Imogen, 
now  that  relief  and  reaction  have  succeeded  to  the 
excitement  of  the  last  days,  and  to  the  strain  of  the 
weeks  and  months  preceding,  finds  herself  scarcely 
able  to  rise  with  the  others.  She  shows  her  exhaus- 
tion in  every  feature.  Belarius  seems  quickest  to 
read  this  open  secret;  Arviragus  is  most  ready  and 
complete  in  sympathy. 

Brother,  siay  here. 
Are  we  not  brothers  ? 

Imogen,  reminded  in  some  way  of  court  exclusive- 
ness,  is  inclined  to  be  ironical.  '  So  man  should  be ; 
but  we  must  remember  that  some  human  clay  is  of 
inferior  dignity,  though  its  dust  is  as  select  as  any.' 
Then  she  admits  that  she  is  very  sick.  That  starts 
Guiderius  up :  — 

Go  you  to  hunting.     I'll  abide  with  him. 

Guiderius  is  accustomed,  evidently,  to  have  his  way. 
Neither  Belarius  nor  Arviragus  gainsays.  The  idea 
of  ado,  because  of  her  admission  that  she  is  not  well, 
makes  Imogen  qualify.  To  her  orderly  mind,  Guide- 
rius remaining  at  home  will  spoil  for  him,  and  perhaps 
the  others,  the  whole  day.  '  The  breach  of  custom 
is  breach  of  all.'  Besides,  she  considers  herself  prac- 
tically not  so  very  sick  after  all,  since  she  '  can  talk 
about  it.'  She  has  not  been  spoiled,  certainly,  by 
petting.     She  begs  to  be  left  alone  :  — 


CYMBELINE   IV.  Il  79 

Pray  you,  trust  me  here. 
I'll  rob  none  but  myself;  and  let  me  die, 
Stealing  so  poorly. 

This  is  pure  feminineness,  though  Imogen  does 
not  dream  how  ill  she  conceals  her  sex.  Guiderius 
has  never  felt  such  charms  before,  and  does  not 
know  how  he  is  wrought  upon,  believing  as  he  does 
that  Imogen  is  a  man. 

I  love  thee.     I  have  spoke  it ; 
How  much  the  quantity,  the  weight  as  much. 
As  I  do  love  my  father. 

Belarius  affects  to  be  signally  surprised,  or  shocked, 
but  is  really  proud  that  the  lad  responds  to  noble  in- 
fluences so  nobly.  Arviragus,  with  equal  frankness, 
confesses  to  even  deeper  feeling.  As  he  withdraws, 
bidding  his  new  '  brother '  farewell,  the  sick  Imogen 
does  not  fail  to  wish  him  sport,  though  he  has  forgot 
to  wish  her  health.  Belarius  and  Guiderius  have 
set  out  for  the  hills  already,  though  they  walk  but 
slowly  and  look  back.  The  petite,  trim  figure  is 
seen  to  totter  slowly  toward  the  cave,  then  disappear 
within.  In  the  talk  of  the  boys  which  follows  we 
are  made  to  know  more  definitely  how  their 

.  .  Arviragus 

sister  has  enchanted  them.     With  Arviragus  has  come 
it  is,  naturally,  her  singing  ;  with  Guiderius,   nearer  to 
her  accomplishments  and  resources  as  a  cook. 
But  it  is  Arviragus  who  has  approached  closer  to  her 
confidence  and  sympathy.     To  him  alone  she  (11.  41, 
42  above)  has  hinted  she  might  tell  something  of  her 
story.     It  is  he  who  has  divined  the  riddle  of   her 
face,  its  sorrow  which  she  harbours  but  with  protest, 


80  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

for  she  will  not  mope  with  friends,  and  the  smile  of 
kindliness  by  which  she  almost  conquers  it.  Arvira- 
gus  is  also  no  mean  interpreter  of  what  he  sees :  — 

Nobly  he  yokes 
A  smiling  with  a  sigh,  as  if  the  sigh 
Was  that  it  was,  for  not  being  such  a  smile. 

But  Guiderius,  in  his  matter-of-fact  way,  sees  and 
says  it  very  differently :  — 

I  do  note 
That  grief  and  patience,  rooted  in  him  both, 
Mingle  their  spurs  together. 

Cloten  probably  travelled  all  last  night,  to  be  surer 
of  his  prey.  Breakfastless  and  weary,  he  has  scur- 
ried about  since  dawn,  and  begins  to  realise  that  he 
has  been  duped.  He  stumbles  upon  the  hunters,  who 
are  lingering  yet  over  their  talk.  Belarius  sounds  the 
note  of  alarm,  recognising  Cloten,  through  twenty 
years,  as  son  of  the  Queen.  Guiderius,  the  youth  of 
deeds,  will  not  retreat,  but  sends  his  Apollo  brother 
and  their  guardian  away.  To  evolve  the  quarrel 
that  shall  rid  Imogen  of  her  persecutor,  occupies 
the  author  but  a  few  lines.  He  calls  our  atten- 
tion again,  through  Cloten,  to  Posthumus's  clothing, 
Guiderius  ^^  which  the  hcro  was  first  shown  to  us. 
has  no  Clotcn  is  half  minded  to  be  proud  of  being 
attired  so  well ;  for  his  rival's  taste,  we  may 
be  sure,  is  the  best  at  court.  Guiderius  has  no 
proper  weapon  to  meet  his  adversary  with,  but  drives 
him  forth  to  bay  fearlessly  just  the  same.  In  a  few 
moments  he  is  returned,  bearing  the  head  of  Cloten 
by  its  hair.     This  is  much,  of  course,  to  force  upon 


CYMBELINE  IV.  ii  8 1 

our  sight ;  but  the  author  has  need  that  it  all  be  vis- 
ual. He  has  made  a  Cloten  on  purpose  to  endure 
decapitation,  for  reasons  soon  to  appear.  Of  course 
the  punishment  is  extreme,  but  the  author  has  pre- 
pared for  it  doubly.  We  could  scarcely  have  endured 
the  plot,  unless  some  one  expiated  the  general  guilt. 
There  must  be  hurt  to  answer  hurt.  So,  outside  of 
his  own  villany  and  its  issue,  Cloten  is  made  the 
scapegoat  of  the  play. 

Belarius  has  hoped  for  some  turn  of  fortune  by 
which  one  of  the  boys  should  get  the  throne.  The 
present  business  threatens  to  spoil  all  that.  Arvira- 
gus  (11.  156-159)  chafes  that  he  has  been  denied  his 
share  in  the  feat :  — 

Polydore, 
I  love  thee  brotherly,  but  envy  much 
Thou  has  robb'd  me  of  this  deed. 

While  Belarius  waits  for  Guiderius's  return,  he 
sends  Arviragus  in  advance  to  Fidele.  This  separa- 
tion is  clearly  for  a  purpose.  As  the  others  after 
some  minutes  follow,  they  hear  the  rude  harp  that 
Belarius  once  devised,  left  long  since  untouched, 
sounding.  The  chords  are  mournful.  Belarius  is 
scandalised :  — 

My  ingenious  instrument ! 
Hark,  Polydore,  it  sounds  !     But  what  occasion 
Hath  Cadwell  noro  to  give  it  motion  ? 

Splendidly  dramatic  is  the  effect  of  this  slow,  mourn- 
ful music  from  within  the  cave,  while  neither  ^, 

The  d  ra- 
the means  nor  the  occasion  of  the  sounds  is  matic  effect 

seen.     Guiderius  cannot  of  course  explain,   °.^  "^^  "*"" 

'■  '    sicsounded 

though  he   tries  his   wits   sorely  upon   the  in  advance. 


82  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

case.  Then  comes  something  to  view,  which  the 
old  eyes  of  Belarius  catch  more  quickly  than  Guide- 
rius's  younger  sight.  It  is  Arviragus  bending  low 
to  pass  the  cavern  entrance,  and  stooping  withal  in 
tenderness  over  the  body  of  his  sister,  carried  in  his 
arms.  He  brings  her  out  before  Belarius  and  his 
brother. 

The  bird  is  dead 
That  we  have  made  so  much  on.     I  had  rather 
Have  skipp'd  from  sixteen  years  of  age  to  sixty, 
To  have  turn'd  my  leaping-time  into  a  crutch, 
Than  have  seen  this. 

The  form  of  his  sister  lies  close  about  Arviragus, 
her  head  against  his  shoulder.  The  sight  starts  the 
imagination  of  Guiderius,  which  never  speaks  but  by 
the  card :  — 

O  sweetest,  fairest  lily ! 
My  brother  wears  thee  not  the  one  half  so  well 
As  when  thou  grew'st  thyself. 

Belarius,  with  an  old  man's  slowness,  has  been  pon- 
dering since  yesterday  the  meaning  of  this  visit,  and 
has  divined  substantially  (11.  206-208)  of  the  truth. 

Thou  blessed  thing! 
Jove  knows  what  man  thou  mightst  have  made;  but  I, 
Thou  diedst,  a  most  rare  boy  of  melancholy. 

Arviragus,  in  a  very  exalted  state  of  fancy,  tells  how 
the  body  lay,  'smiling  as  some  fly  had  tickled  the 
sleeper,  his  right  cheek  reposing  on  a  cushion,'  — 

o'  the  floor, 
His  arms  thus  leagu'd.     I  thought  he  slept,  and  put 
My  clouted  brogues  from  off  my  feet,  whose  rudeness 
Answer' d  my  steps  too  loud. 


CYMBELINE  IV.  ii  83 

The  author  has  caused  Imogen  to  fall  asleep  with 
her  arms  '  leagued '  or  folded,  across  her  bosom,  to 
conceal  her  sex  from  the  one  who  should  lift  her  up. 
Arviragus  is  made  to  have  put  off  his  shoes  to  mark 
to  us  the  degree  of  his  fine  thoughtfulness,  not  bred, 
but  instinctive  in  his  kingly  blood. 

As  their  sorrow  deepens,  each  of  the  brothers 
gives  expression  to  what  he  has  discerned  in  the 
beautiful  youth  now  lying  dead.  Guiderius  is  wholly 
objective,  as  heretofore.  He  can  best  declare  the 
beauty  he  has  seen  as  something  too  spiritual  to 
know  corruption.  Fairies  will  flock  perforce  about 
his  burying-place,  which  will  be  a  bed  and  not  a 
grave.  Arviragus,  on  the  contrary,  is  subjective  and 
etherealised  wholly  in  his  vision :  — 

With  fairest  flowers 
Whilst  summer  lasts  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave.     Thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose,  nor 
The  azur'd  harebell,  like  thy  veins,  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 
Outsweeten'd  not  thy  breath.     The  ruddock  would, 
With  charitable  bill, — O  bill,  sore-shaming 
Those  rich-left  heirs  that  let  their  fathers  lie 
Without  a  monument,  —  bring  thee  all  this. 
Yea,  and  furr'd  moss  besides,  when  flowers  are  none. 
To  winter-ground  thy  corse. 

The  proof  of  imaginative  delicacy  is  seen  through- 
out, but  best  perhaps  in  the  personification  ivhom. 
It  is  the  interpretation  of  a  virile  mind,  though  a 
woman's  tenderness  could  not  have  made  it  sweeter. 
Guiderius  cries  out  in  protest,  for  there  seem  words 


84  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

and  tears  too  many.  Such  a  tribute  is  to  him  empty 
and  unserious,  in  the  face  of  the  deeds,  the  offices 
that  they  delay  :  — 

Let  us  bury  him, 
And  not  protract  with  admiration  what 
Is  now  debt  due. 

Arviragus  accedes ;  but  he  finds  himself  immediately 
at  a  loss,  as  a  child  might,  where  the  body  should  be 
Shake  ^^^*^'  Guiderius  is  immediate  with  his  answer, 
speare's  Arviragus,  for  his  part,  feels  equal  certitude 
chmaxes.  concerning  the  obsequies  :  they  must  sing 
him  to  his  resting-place,  just  as  once  Euriphile,  their 
mother.  But  Guiderius  cannot  sing,  he  is  sure,  for 
tears ;  and  they  agree  not  to  attempt  more  than  to 
say  the  words  together.  Thus  the  author  rises  tow- 
ard his  climax,  as  always,  by  the  simplest  means: 
two  youths,  prevented  from  singing  their  funereal 
hymn,  lest  grief  shall  make  them  dumb,  do  not  think 
to  forego  the  tribute,  but  they  will  brokenly  speak  the 
lines. 

It  would  seem  incongruous,  perhaps,  for   Belarius 
to  be  present  at  the  obsequies  proposed,  having  no 
part ;  and  it  would  not  probably  be  pleas- 
absent         ing  to  us  were  he  to  assist.    So  Shakespeare 
from  the      contrives  to  have  him  gone.     Of  course  this 

obsequies.  .  ° 

touching  funeral  might  have  been  delayed 
until  his  return  with  Cloten's  body ;  but  that  would 
have  spoiled  the  whole.  Arviragus  is  the  master  of 
singing,  as  Guiderius  is  of  the  hunt ;  yet  he  will  have 
Guiderius  begin.  Thus  the  lads,  taking  up  the  body 
of  Imogen,  and  advancing  slowly  to  the  measure  of 


CYMBELINE  IV.  il  85 

the  lines  recited,  carry  it  toward  its  resting-place. 
There  is  no  mention  any  more  of  burying ;  that 
would  have  burdened  us  with  infinite  concern  at  this 
chief  moment.  The  song  has  no  mention  of  Fidele 
icf.  1.  238  above)  as  we  expect;^  hence  we  might 
suppose  it  not  the  one  furnished  originally  by  the 
author  of  the  play.  But  it  befits  the  rustic  situation, 
and  is  wholly  such  as  might  have  taken  shape,  in 
deep  solitude,  on  the  lips  of  boys  philosophically 
inchned,  as  these  are.  The  sentiments  are  all  ge- 
neric, and  by  no  means  youthful. 

The  moment  of  climax  should  be  now,  as  the 
weeping  youths  begin  to  bear  along  the  body  slowly, 
to  the  measure  of  their  chant.  But  we  know  xhe  climax 
that  their  sister  is  not  dead  ;  hence  the  real  of  pathos. 
consummation  of  interest  is  to  be  postponed.  Yet 
the  delay  incident  to  rendering  the  song,  four  six- 
line  stanzas,  affords  time  for  the  fullest  arousement 
of  imagination.  We  discern  Imogen  at  her  highest 
of  womanly  nobleness  and  power.  Guiderius,  who 
is  Mars  enough  to  have  slain  her  enemy  without  a 
sword,  is  all  in  sobs  because  of  his  few  hours'  know- 
ledge of  her  mind.  Arviragus,  the  prince-genius, 
feels  more  than  a  brother's  love  toward  her,  called 
forth  by  her  unpretending  sweetness  and  ministry. 
She  has  been  faithful  unto  death,  though  she  is  yet 
not  to  die.     She  has  moved  us,  as  her  death  could 

^  The  references,  besides,  are  to  '  lads  and  girls,'  and  '  lovers,'  and 
not  to  any  one  of  years.  On  the  other  hand,  'tyrant's  stroke'  and 
'  frown  o'  the  great '  suit  the  notion  of  a  former  use  over  the  dead 
body  of  Euriphile. 


86  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

alone  have  moved  us,  by  the  beautiful  singleness 
and  completeness  of  her  life.  There  have  been  no 
moods,  no  humours ;  there  has  been  no  variableness 
or  shadow  of  turning  from  an  almost  mascuHne  jus- 
tice and  integrity,  yet  in  all  womanliness  and  femi- 
nine devotion. 

As  the  hymn  ended,  Belarius  appears  bearing 
Cloten's  body.  Here  is  something  unlooked  for: 
the  headless  corpse  of  Cloten  and  Imogen  are  laid 
side  by  side.  Flowers  are  strewed  on  both  ;  the  old 
„,     ,.         man   and  the   brothers  retire  softly,  rever- 

The  climax  .'  ' 

of  the  ently,  upon  their  knees.  What  is  to  be  the 
^^^^^'  issue .''  It  is  to  be  the  instant  of  climax. 
The  drug  has  done  its  work ;  Imogen  rouses  ex- 
citedly from  her  trance,  all  in  struggle  to  reach  Mil- 
ford  Haven.  Lying  upon  her  face  she  is  kept  from 
seeing  the  body  that  rests  beside.  She  sits  erect, 
and  tries  to  rise.  But  strength  fails  her ;  her  brain 
is  yet  too  full  of  sleep.  Before  she  again  hes  down 
she  discerns  the  form  that  has  been  laid  next  hers. 
The  flowers  have  hidden  it  hitherto,  and  she  does 
not  yet  see  that  it  is  headless.  This  is  a  moment 
to  have  driven  a  mind  less  strong,  insane.  Slowly, 
but  insistently,  she  works  her  way  back  to  certitude. 

I  /ioJ>e  I  dream, 
For  so  I  thought  I  was  a  cave-keeper, 
And  cook  to  honest  creatures.     But  'tis  noi  so. 

Good  faith 

I  tremble  still  with  fear;   but  z/ there  de 
Yet  left  in  heaven  as  small  a  drop  ol pity 
As  a  wren's  eye,  fear'd  gods,  a  part  of  it ! 

She  plucks  away  the  flowers.     It  is  a  headless  man  ; 


CYMBELINE   IV.  ii  87 

and  the  garments  are  her  husband's !     The  objective- 
ness  of  her  fancy  makes  her  sure  that  the 
shape    also   is    his.      And    then,    horrified  objefuve- 
almost  to  speechlessness,   she  sees   in  her  "^^^  ^s'^'" 

,,  ,  ,      .  .    ,  ,     ,  misleads. 

mmd  s  eye  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  mat- 
ter. Pisanio  and  Cloten  have  conspired  to  cut  him  off, 
and  she  has  been  lured  here  to  find  him  dead.  Her 
imagination  that  cannot  mount,  but  creeps,  makes 
all  this  real  to  her.  The  dreadful  spectacle  of  the 
bloody  neck,  as  she  turns  her  eyes  once  more  to 
sight  it  surely,  makes  her  flesh  creep  and  her  senses 
reel.  She  swoons,  half  embracingly,  half  shunningly, 
across  the  body.  Cloten's  baseness  is  transfigured 
for  the  moment  through  this  mistake. 

The  tramp  of  horses  is  plainly  heard.     This  is  not 
the   British  thoroughfare  to   Milford    Haven,  but  a 
patch  of  glade  apparently  not  far  from  it. 
The    Roman    lieutenant,    only  now    landed  ^jth  cio- 
from  Gaul  with  Lucius's  commission,  find-  <en,  left 
mg  his  superior  officer  not  yet  returned  from  highroad 
Cymbehne,  seems  to  have  set  out,  with  this  *°  Miiford 
group  of  brother  subalterns  and  the  sooth- 
sayer, on  the  way  to  escort  him  in.     The  two  parties 
have  met  but  a  little  distance  back,  for  the  captain 
has  not  finished,  to  Lucius,  his  summary  of  the  intel- 
ligence that  waits  him  at  the  harbour.     They  are  rid- 
ing just  now  in  the  glade,  beside  the  beaten  path, 
and  happen  thus  upon  Cloten's  body.     Imogen  has 
come  nearly  to  the  end  of  her  swoon ;  and  the  cap- 
tain, who  has  dismounted  to  know  whether  the  page 
be  still  alive,  arouses  her  to  her  senses.     She  seem- 


88  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

ingly  does  not  recognise  Lucius  as  the  delayed  em- 
bassador, whom  she  had  hoped  to  accompany  to 
Rome.  Her  self-possession  comes  back,  and  she 
works  her  plight  into  a  consistent  story,  keeping 
back  all  reference  to  Cloten  and  Pisanio.  In  half  a 
page  of  dialogue  the  imperial  proconsul  has  offered 
service  —  Roman  magnates  were  wont  to  set  much 
store  by  beautiful  boys  —  and  she  has  not  hesitated 
to  accept. 

So  Imogen's  flight  from  court  was  to  end  in  this. 
She  has  been  brought  here  that  we  may  receive  the 
utmost  of  her  influence.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of 
that.  But  what  is  to  become  of  her  ?  Her  husband 
is  in  Italy,  and  she,  as  we  have  probably  divined,  is 
to  be  restored  to  him.  She  beUeves  that  she  has, 
beside  her,  his  dead  body.  How  can  she  think  of 
leaving  Britain,  with  Posthumus  dead  there  and 
buried  in  its  soil.^  Here  seems  at  first  a  paradox, 
a  contradiction.  There  is  still  the  same  infinite  devo- 
tion, the  old  unfathomable  instinct  of  service  :  — 

But  first,  an't  please  the  gods, 
I'll  hide  my  master  from  the  flies,  as  deep 
As  these  poor  pickaxes  can  dig;   and  when 
With  wild  wood-leaves  and  weeds  I  ha'  strew'd  his  grave, 
And  on  it  said  a  century  of  prayers, 
Such  as  I  can,  twice  o'er,  I'll  weep  and  sigh. 
And  leaving  so  his  service,  follow  you, 
So  please  you  entertain  me. 

Yet  it  is  indubitable  that  she  is  perfectly  willing  to 
go  away. 

The  artistic  problem  here  is  profound  and  intricate, 
and  seems  to  have  engaged  the  author  early  after  the 


CYMBELINE  IV.  ii  89 

opening  of  the  play.  Imogen,  to  be  sure,  does  not 
leave  Britain,  but  Shakespeare  makes  her  resolve 
and  expect  to  do  so.  There  are  indeed  strong  rea- 
sons, perhaps  recognised  by  herself,  why  she  should 
wish  to  go.  If  Posthumus  has  been  true,  and  Cloten 
have  bribed  Pisanio  to  kill  him,  her  safety 
evidently  lies  elsewhere.  To  escape  the  fears  of  the 
Queen  and  Cloten,  she  will  accept  the  pro-  Q'^'^en  and 

,,  rr  ,r  i  •  i  ClOten. 

consul  s  offer.    Yet  we  are  sure,  knowmg  her 

nature  as  we  have  learned  it,  that  she  would  have 

refused  to  budge  foot  from  Britain,  but  would  have 

stayed  to  keep  and  guard  her  husband's  grave.    Very 

evidently  Shakespeare  thought  so  too.     He  has  had 

much  ado  to  bring  about,  artistically  and  truthfully, 

the  outcome  that  the  plot  demands. 

The  effect  upon  affection  of  seeing  the  dead  body 

of  a   beloved   one   crushed   or   disfigured  has  been 

often  noticed.     Even  when  there  is  vastly  yhe  influ- 

less  mutilation  than  Imogen  believes  that  ence  of  dis- 
figurement 
her  husband  in  this  case  has  suffered,  the  upon  affec- 

instinct  of  tender  offices  and  devotion  to  the  *'°"- 
memory  of  the  deceased  is  well-nigh  paralysed.  Imo- 
gen, who  never  allowed  Posthumus's  bracelet  to  leave 
her  arm,  has  no  thought  of  strewing  her  husband's 
grave  with  flowers,  save  now  at  burial.  She  would 
have  been  aghast,  undoubtedly,  could  her  attention 
have  been  drawn  specifically  to  this  lack  of  feeling. 
Arviragus  proposed,  thinking  his  sister  dead,  to 
sweeten  her  sad  grave  so  long  as  summers  should 
succeed  each  other  and  find  him  living;  and  we 
know  that  he  cannot  outrival  Imogen.     So  the  de- 


90  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

vice  of  putting  Posthumus's  clothes  on  the  victim,  to 

compel  Imogen's  belief  that    her   husband 

insurto^     was  dead,  and  the  whole  idea  of  her  insult 

cioten         to  Cloten  touching  his  meanest  garments, 

planned  to  ,        .      ,  , 

enable  her    ^^d  of  the  proposcd  rcveuge,  were  woven 
free  action    j^to  the  plot  onlv  to  enable  her  free  action 

now.  . 

now.  The  pomt  illustrates  well  how  con- 
scientiously a  great  artist  works.  An  inferior  author 
would  have  had  her  go  away  without  a  reason. 

The  scene  has  been  a  long  one,  and  must  not  offer 
further  action.  We  shall  not  care  to  see  Cloten  laid 
away  by  the  Roman  soldiers  in  Welsh  soil,  and  Imo- 
gen in  further  grief.  Lucius  will  himself  take  part 
in  the  burial.  After,  we  shall  expect  him,  with  Imo- 
gen in  his  protection,  to  attempt  a  more  active  role. 

SCENE  III 

Things  have  changed  at  the  King's  palace,  whither 
the  scene  now  shifts.  Cymbeline  is  in  some  excite- 
ment, as  the  first  Hne  shows.  His  sending  the 
attendant  back  with  Ag-atn  !  to  the  Queen's  apart- 
ments, tells  how  incessantly  and  anxiously  he  has 
The  King's  ^ought  for  tidings.  He  is  made  to  show  us, 
lethargy  in  a  parenthetical  soliloquy,  that  his  lethargy 
is  effectually  lifted,  and  that  he  realises  his 
resourceless  pHght,  with  the  Queen,  and  Cloten,  and 
Imogen,  —  the  great  part  of  his  comfort  now,  no 
longer  by.  Pisanio  gives  evidence  again  of  his 
expertness  at  equivocation,  but  incurs  the  debit  of 
at  least  one  fib.  The  First  Lord's  bad  memory 
assists ;  but  for  the  assurance  that  '  the  day  she  was 


CYMBELINE   IV.  iv  9 1 

missing  he  was  here,'  it  might  have  gone  hard  with 
the  smooth  serving-man.  The  time  is,  apparently, 
two  or  three  days  after  the  last  scene,  for  report  of 
the  arriving  of  the  legions  from  Gaul  has  just  come 
in.  The  Roman  forces  under  Lucius  are  evidently 
waiting  to  be  strengthened  by  the  contingent  of 
Italian  gentry  {cf.  11.  341,  342,  of  the  last  scene) 
before  beginning  the  campaign.  The  statement,  in 
the  First  Lord's  advices,  that  (11.  25,  26)  lachimo's 
forces  are  already  landed,  seems  premature. 

In  default  of  the  usual  counsellors,  Cymbeline 
will  probably  restore  the  First  Lord  to  his  rightful 
post;  and  in  that  case  the  British  army  will  not 
wait  to  be  attacked.  Pisanio  closes  the  scene  with 
some  discussion  of  his  troubles.  He  finds  (11.  41,  42) 
that  he  has  lost  standing  somewhat  with  himself  :  — 

The  heavens  still  must  work. 
Wherein  I  am  false  I  am  honest;  not  true,  to  be  true. 

We  note,  at  the  beginning  of  his  soliloquy,  an  in- 
stance of  the  author's  resort  to  dramatic  illusion. 
Of  course  there  has  been  no  such  interval, 

r         TTr    1  The  illu- 

smce  Imogen   left  the  court  for  Wales,  as  sionofiong 
Pisanio  is  made  here  to  imply  ;  but  that  fact  '^p^^  °^ 
is  not   so   easily  realised.     Shakespeare   is 
very  deft  and  effectual  in  producing  upon  the  audience 
or  reader  the  effect  of  a  long  lapse  of  time. 

SCENE  rv 

On  account  of  lachimo's  delay,  the  forces  of  Cym- 
behne  will  meet  the  enemy  in  Wales.     The  country 


92  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

about  the  cave  is  full  of  the  comings  and  goings 
of  British  soldiery.  Belarius  and  his  wards 
imaghia-^^  must  soon  take  sides,  or  be  captured  for 
tion  carries  bandit  mountaiueers.  The  present  scene 
im  away,  ^^^^-^g  ^^^  stcps  by  which  all  three  are 
brought  to  join  the  army  of  the  King.  Belarius  has 
small  help  from  patriotism,  and  at  first  proposes  to 
move  higher  up  the  mountains,  until  the  victory  is 
known.  There  are  signs  that  the  battle  is  even  now 
beginning.  Arviragus  declares,  in  spite  of  his  guar- 
dian's wishes,  that  he  will  share  in  the  fight.  The 
reasons  that  he  recounts  inflame  Guiderius.  Then 
Belarius,  proud  of  the  spirit  in  the  lads,  and  sure  that 
the  issue  will  be  glorious,  bids  them  lead  out :  — 

The  time  seems  long;  their  blood  thinks  scorn. 
Till  it  fly  out  and  show  them  princes  born. 

Act  V 

SCENE   I 

In  the  camp  of  the  Italian  gentry,  not  far  from 
where  Cloten  lies,  is  shown  Posthumus,  taking  from 
his  bosom  the  handkerchief,  sent  by  Pisanio,  and 
stained,  as  he  believes,  with  the  blood  of  Imogen. 
Even  since  that  token  came,  he  has  suffered  torments 
Posthumus  °^  remorse.  His  belief  in  lachimo's  evidence 
not  a  man  persists,  yet  he  is  not  convinced.  Deep 
down  in  his  soul  he  feels  that  Imogen  is 
true,  or  if  not  true,  infinitely  more  worthy  than  him- 
self. He  is  not  a  man  of  vision,  or,  as  we  say, 
educated;  he  is  not  able  to  maintain  his  peace  of 


CYMBELINE   V.  ii  93 

mind  in  spite  of  an  lachimo's  assaults  upon  his  faith. 
He  blames  Pisanio  for  consenting  to  be  the  instru- 
ment of  his  wickedness.  This  British  ground  in 
which,  as  he  assumes  Imogen  is  buried,  seems 
sacred.  He  will  fight  against  the  invaders  of  it,  and 
most  adventurously. 

So  I'll  die 
For  thee,  O  Imogen,  even  for  whom  my  life 
Is  every  breath  a  death. 

That  he  may  change  sides  without  the  knowledge 
of  either  party,  who  would  recognise  him  equally,  he 
will  disguise  himself  as  a  common  soldier.  He  is 
made  to  invest  himself,  in  our  sight,  with  some 
British  peasant's  dress  that  he  has  picked  up,  that 
we  may  identify  him  hereafter.  True  to  his  char- 
acter, he  thinks  this  no  inconsiderable  condescension. 

To  shame  the  guise  o'  the  world,  I  will  begin 
The  fashion,  less  without  and  more  within. 

It  will  probably  never  be  clear  to  Posthumus  that 
this  fashion  was  set  before  his  time,  and  that  even 
his  wife  exemplifies  it  better  than  he  will  ever  under- 
stand. Posthumus  is  prevailingly  an  outside  man,  as 
we  have  seen,  though  he  is  not  vain  or  proud. 


lachimo  seemed  to  us,  when  he  was  securing  to 
himself  Posthumus's  ring,  wholly  without  conscience. 
We  see  now  that  he  has  a  conscience,  and  ,    u-     • 

'  lachimo  s 

that  it  has  been  active;  and  this  return  to  active  con- 
Britain  increases  its  power  upon  him.     As  ^*^'^"^^- 
the  armies  meet  in  their  first   skirmish,  Posthumus 


94  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

seeks  out  lachimo,  and  disarms  him.  He  is  thus 
seen  to  cherish  no  gross  hatred  of  lachimo  for  being 
the  occasion  of  his  woes.  lachimo,  could  he  have 
known  with  whom  he  fought,  would  not  have  ex- 
pected to  be  spared. 

The  battle  becomes  general.  That  part  of  it  which 
is  enacted  upon  the  stage  shows  the  capture  of  King 
Cymbeline.  From  some  spot  of  vantage  this  is  seen 
by  Belarius  and  the  lads,  who  rush  in  and  rally  the 
disheartened  Britons.  Nothing  comes  of  that  until 
Posthumus,  with  the  strength  of  the  Leonati,  joins 
them.  Then  Cymbeline  is  rescued  and  escorted  away. 
So,  somewhat  crudely,  it  must  be  owned,  Shake- 
speare has  forced  upon  Posthumus  a  part  that  will 
redeem  him  with  the  King.  In  the  general  break-up 
we  recognise  the  proconsul,  urging  Imogen  to  make 
good  her  escape  from  the  place  of  fighting.  It  was 
not  her  lot  to  go  away  from  Britain,  and  be  saved 
new  grief,  for  the  war  has  come  to  her.  Lucius  has 
been  tender  of  his  page  companion,  as  is  clear. 

SCENE  ni 

Posthumus  and  his  comrades  have  managed,  after 
the  rescue  of  Cymbehne  and  the  general  retreat  of 
the  invaders,  to  withdraw  and  mingle  among  the 
British  soldiery  unnoticed.  The  excitement  of  vic- 
tory is  yet  too  strong  to  admit  of  search  or  inquiry 
as  to  their  whereabouts.  Posthumus  has  slipped 
from  his  nobleman's  suit  the  coarse  peasant's  frock 
which  enveloped  and  disguised  him  during  the  fight. 
He  is  presented  to  us  in  conversation  with  a  British 


CYMBELINE  V.  iv  95 

lord,  by  way  of  whom   he  is   made  to  explain  the 
battle   more   in   detail.     The   resources    of 

The  an- 

Shakespeare's  stage  did  not  admit  of  enact-  dent  ford- 
ing more  than  the  merest  suggestion  of  the  '^'^^"^"s, 
rally  and  the  rout.  It  now  comes  out  that  Belarius 
and  the  youths  had  taken  post  by  some  old  military 
works,  formed,  as  it  would  seem,  by  trenching  the 
ground  and  pihng  up  walls  of  turf.  Thus  they  find 
themselves  in  control  of  a  sort  of  lane  or  pass,  at  the 
head  of  which  four  warriors  might  bar  the  passage 
of  a  considerable  force.  Posthumus  makes  no  men- 
tion of  himself  as  the  fourth  champion,  and  the 
British  lord  grows  incredulous  and  apathetic.  This 
puts  Posthumus  out  of  the  best  part  of  his  patience. 
The  dialogue  ends  abruptly,  affording  Posthumus  the 
chance  to  tell  us  how  he  has  sought  death,  vainly, 
but  is  determined  not  to  survive  the  day.  Two 
British  officers  appear,  with  soldiers,  and  Posthumus 
is  seized  and  borne  away,  as  we  hear  proposed,  to 
Cymbeline. 

SCENE   IV 

Posthumus  is  in  the  way  of  being  speedily  recon- 
ciled to  the  King.  There  remains  to  the  play  but 
his  penance  and  his  reconciliation  with  Imogen. 
With  the  penance  Shakespeare  at  once  proceeds. 
Posthumus  accepts  the  prospect  of  execution,  and 
falls  asleep  speaking  to  his  dead  Imogen. 

After  Posthumus's  soliloquy,  we  come  upon  matte^ 
which  is  found  in  the  Folio  or  earliest  edition  of  the 
play,  but  can  scarcely  be  considered  Shakespeare's. 


96  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

We  pass  to  the  point  (1.  152)  where  Posthumus  is 
waked  by  his  keepers,  as  the  earliest  paragraph 
which  seems  to  show  Shakespeare's  hand.  By  the 
dialogue  here,  which  pretty  fully  incorporates  the 
element  of  time,  Posthumus  is  adjusted  to  what  we 
Posthumus  accept  dramatically  as  his  fate,  and  ex- 
achieves  piates  his  crrors.  Similarly  as  with  Imogen, 
uai  effect  of  when  her  brothers  buried  her,  there  is 
dying.  achieved  all  the  spiritual  effect  of  dying, 
while  the  death  is  spared.  After  this  conversation 
with  the  Gaoler,  a  messenger  brings  orders  to  unfetter 
the  prisoner,  and  bring  him  into  the  presence  of  the 
King.  We  know  from  this  that  the  last  situation  of 
the  play  is  about  to  be  opened  for  us.  Posthumus 
notes  the  dejected  air  of  the  Gaoler,  and  divines  that 
he  will  not  be  executed  after  all.  This  he  calls  "  good 
news  " ;  so  we  know  that  he  is  content  to  live. 

SCENE   V 

It  is  well  to  study  the  stage  directions  at  the  open- 
ing of  Shakespeare's  scenes.  They  often  tell  us  as 
^,  ,  much  as  the  after  lines.     Here,  next  the 

Shake- 
speare's       person  of  the  King,  stand  our  old  friends  of 

tlon^^"^^'^'  the  cave,  outranking  the  lords  and  officers 

of  the  realm.     This  means  that  at  last  the 

stayers  of  the  flight  are  found,  and  have  place  by 

the  King  as  the  heroes  of  the  hour. 

Cornelius  and  certain  court  ladies  now  introduce 

themselves.     It  is  a  hard  jaunt,  across  Britain  to  the 

camp  of  CymbeHne,  for  women  of  their  sort.     But  the 

author  needs  them,  or  will  soon  need  them,  as  sup- 


CYMBELINE  V.  v  97 

port  to  Imogen.     Shakespeare  is  delicately  consider- 
ate of   the  proprieties,  and   will   not   have  why  court 
his  heroine  presented  to  us  here  in  the  com-  ^^'^'^^^ 
pany  of  men  alone.     The  subterfuge  under  the  King's 
which   he  brings   the  court   dames  hither,  ^^""p- 
women  doubtless  much  older  than  Imogen,  is  to  have 
them  bear  out  the  testimony  of  Cornelius.     Cymbe- 
line  affirms  that  he  has  never  guessed  or  suspected 
the  baseness  of  the  Queen.     There  is  surely  little  of 
the  Arviragus  penetration  in  him. 

At  this  point  Lucius  and  lachimo,  and  other  chief 
Roman  prisoners,  are  brought  forward.  Posthumus 
follows  this  guarded  company ;  and  after  these,  and 
him,  at  a  significant  interval,  comes  Imogen  in  her 
page  disguises.  She  has  not  heard  Cornelius  tell 
of  the  Queen's  death,  and  does  not  know  how  her 
father's  heart  is  altered.  Here  she  stands  in,  we  may 
be  sure,  a  beautiful  new  perturbation.  Her  cave 
friends  and  Pisanio  are  in  honour  next  the  King, 
while  Cloten  is  nowhere  in  view.  Posthumus,  clothed 
in  '  Italian  weeds,'  is  not  yet  confidently  recognised 
as  her  husband.  All  her  beliefs  and  theories  are  in 
confusion. 

The  King  immediately,  without  circumstance  or 
formality  —  there  is  as  little  of  the  monarch  in  Cym- 
beline  as  of  the  princess  in  his  daughter  —  addresses 
Lucius.  There  is  a  hint  (1.  69)  of  sarcasm  in  his 
first  words :  — 

Thou  com'st  not,  Caius,  no7v  for  tribute. 

The  kinsmen  of   the  British   slain  have  demanded 


98  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

that  the  principal  captives  be  butchered,  and  this 
the  King  thinks  he  shall  allow.  Lucius  receives  the 
word  with  apparent  fortitude,  but  bespeaks  (11.  85-88) 
that  Imogen  be  spared:  — 

.  .  ,  never  master  had 
A  page  so  kind,  so  duteous,  diligent, 
So  tender  over  his  occasions,  true, 
So  feat,  so  nurse-like. 

Cymbeline  looks  into  the  face  of  Imogen,  and  thinks 

he  has  seen  it  before  somewhere,  yet  does  not  recog- 

,    nise  his  daughter.     We  note  again  that  there 

Arviraguss  °  i  •  •     j 

imagina-  is  no  Arviragus  penetration  in  this  mind. 
tion  not       -gyi-  something  of  her  influence  comes  upon 

inherited  ° 

from  his  him.  He  will  spare  her,  and  he  will  spare 
lather.  y^^^  master  too.  That  he  may  not  unsay 
his  royal  word  too  Hghtly,  he  offers  her  a  boon 
and  tries  to  make  her  choose  that  this  shall  be  the 
saving  of  the  proconsul's  life.  To  his  surprise,  she 
thanks  him,  but  makes  no  request.  Lucius  hints  to 
her  of  his  expectation.^  She  answers  him  with  the 
sternness  of  an  executioner,  that  there  is  something 
,    ^.  that  will  prevent,  that  even   his  life  must 

lacnimo  ^  ' 

recognised  shufflc  for  itsclf.  The  riddlcs  are  multiply- 
by  Imogen,  j^^g .  ^^^  ^^^^  j^  lachimo,  once  a  messenger 

of  her  husband,  wearing  her  mother's  ring.  Cymbe- 
line, while  she  waits,  pondering  this  thing  that  is 
bitter  to  her  as  death,  plies  her  (11.  no,  in)  anew :  — 

'  Lucius  is  here  somewhat  belittled  from  the  true  type  of  a  Roman 
commander,  in  order,  apparently,  to  avoid  a  disadvantageous  contrast 
with  the  other  male  characters  of  the  play.  He  must  not  arouse  our 
admiration  and  sympathy  too  strongly,  lest  we  be  brought  into  an- 
tagonism to  the  course  that  Imogen  proposes. 


CYMBELINE  V.  v  99 

Know'st  him  thou  look'st  on  ?     Speak. 
Wilt  have  him  live  ?     Is  he  thy  kin,  thy  friend  ? 

But  her  course  is  already  found  and  resolved  on. 
lachimo  shall  declare  of  whom  he  obtained  her  ring ; 
and  she  will  use  the  King's  kindness  to  her  as  the 
means  to  extort  that  knowledge. 

lachimo  is  not  so  much  wanting  in  penetration  as 
the  lady  who  confronts  him.  As  he  begins  his  story, 
by  summarily  confessing  that  the  ring  was  Posthu- 
mus's,  and  got  by  villany,  her  colour  changes,  much 
doubtless  as  it  did  when  {cf.  I.  vi.  11)  he  gave  her 
the  letters,  some  months  since,  from  her  husband. 
He  notes  the  changed  expression,  and,  as  it  seems, 
recognises  instantly  who  it  is,  and  with  whom  he  has 
to  do.  This  near  presence,  so  suddenly  divined,  of  the 
woman  for  whom  he  has  conceived  the  deepest  rev- 
erence, unmans  him,  and  he  cries  out  to  the  King  for 
patience.  On  recovering  himself,  he  reverts  The  chief 
to  his  iniquitous  treatment  of  Posthumus,  jachinfo's 
which  has  grown  and  grown  in  his  con-  career, 
sciousness  until  it  has  become  the  chief  episode  of 
his  Hfe.  So  he  tells  it  in  detail,  until  he  has  flashed 
out  the  truth  that  he  got  his  evidence  against  Imo- 
gen by  cunning,  without  her  knowledge.  Then 
stalks  Posthumus  forward  in  agony,  calling  for  cord, 
knife,  poison,  and  ingenious  torturers,  that  he  may 
be  put  at  some  exquisite  expiation  of  the  wickedness 
that  he  has  committed  :  — 

It  is  / 
That  all  the  abhorr'd  things  o'  the  earth  amend 
By  being  worse  than  they.     /  am  Posthumus, 


100  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

That  killed  thy  daughter;  — villain-like,  I  lie  — 

That  caused  a  lesser  villain  than  myself, 

A  sacrilegious  thief,  to  do  't :  the  temple 

Of  virtue  was  she,  —  yea,  and  she  [virtue]  herself. 

Spit,  and  throw  stones,  cast  mire  upon  me,  set 

The  dogs  o'  the  street  to  bay  me;  every  villain 

Be  call'd  Posthumus  Leonatus,  and 

Be  villany  less  than  'twas  !     O  Imogen  ! 

My  queen  !     My  life  !     My  wife  !     O  Imogen  ! 

Imogen !  Imogen ! 

Is  it  wonder,  now,  that  Imogen  comes  forward 
toward  this  man,  holding  her  arms  out,  and  crying,  — 

Peace,  my  lord  !     Hear,  hear,  — 

and  striving  to  save  him  the  least  instant's  further 
pain  ?     But  Posthumus  does  not  know  what 

The  page         ,  i-i        r  •        i  i  i  • 

as  pre-        the  page-uke  figure  is  that  appeals  to  him. 
tending  to     He  Can   think  but  of   interruptions   in  the 

consider  i        i  •  t-t      i       i 

Posthu-        theatre,  such,  that  is,  as  Ehzabethan  actors 
mus  act-       suffered  and  dreaded.     He  is  in  too  great 

mg.  '^ 

agony  to  endure  impertinence  or  mockery 
even  from  a  new  favourite  of  the  King,  and  he  strikes 
the  upstart  meddler.  She  falls  swooning  to  the 
ground. 

Poor  Imogen !  This  seems  too  much.  Why 
should  Shakespeare  have  ordained  this  cruel  error  .-^ 
Shall  we  say  that  it  is  in  keeping  with  Posthumus's 
understanding  and  appreciation  of  Imogen  hitherto, 
that  it  is  typical  of  what  her  lot  must  be  if  she  is  to 
leave  her  destiny  in  Posthumus's  keeping  ?  It  would 
be  something  too  harsh  to  judge  his  weakness  thus. 
Nor  may  we  quite  insist  that  this  is  a  visual,  dramatic 
allegory  of  their  past  wedded  life.     When  he  strikes 


CYMBELINE  V.  v  lOI 

her,  for  her  sake,  we  cannot  but  forgive  him.     And  we 
recognise  that  the  incident  checks  our  rising  The  blow 
enthusiasm  for  Posthumus,  and  keeps  the  ^^  keeping 
hero,  relatively  to  the  herome,  m  his  proper  subordi- 
place.     When  Imogen  returns  to  conscious-  "^^'o"- 
ness,  she  forgets  to  disguise  her  voice,  and  her  father 
hears  once  more  the  tones,  '  the  tune,'  of  Imogen. 

Then  follow  explanations  concerning  the  Queen's 
cordial,  and  the  court-doctor's  ruse.  But  while  these 
smaller  enigmas  are  being  cleared,  Imogen  Imogen 
has  gone  to  Posthumus,  and  put  her  arms  ^!jit"orher 
about  his  neck.  He  seems  to  have  retreated  husband. 
a  few  steps,  after  he  learns  whom  he  has  struck. 
He  cannot  presume  to  draw  near  her,  and  she  will 
not  wait.  There  is  no  reproach,  and  there  is  no  for- 
giveness. All  things  are  as  if  the  cruel  past  had 
never  been. 

Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady  from  you  ? 
Think  that  you  are  upon  a  rock,  and  now 
Throw  me  again ! 

Imogen's  metaphor  is  a  strong  one,  and  characteris- 
tic. Should  we  say  that  Posthumus's  answering  one 
is  equal  in  confidence  and  power  ? 

Imogen  begins  where  she  has  left  off,  presuming 
upon  no  changes.  That  the  father  needs  to  call  for 
some  recognition,  at  this  point,  from  his  daughter, 
is  his  fault,  not  hers.  But  now,  kneeling  all  dutifully, 
she  asks  his  blessing.  Imogen,  we  may  be  sure,  has 
never  knelt  before  to  her  father,  who,  before  the 
coming  of  the  new  Queen,  was  not  in  his  home  a 
king.     There  is  a  little  interval  of  silence,  with  Imo- 


I02  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

gen  waiting,  and  her  father  bending  over,  and  she 
feels  his  tears  upon  her  forehead.  He  is  thinking 
of  the  strange  sight,  and  of  their  alienation,  and  its 
inhuman  cause.  The  old  days,  he  would  have  her 
know,  are  over;  the  wicked  Queen  shall  no  longer 
divide  their  lives.  Imogen,  thinking  his  sorrow  is 
for  the  Queen,  essays  comfort :  — 

I  am  sorry  for  7,  my  lord. 

Here  is  a  triumph  of  pathos  surely. 

The  scene  and  play  wait  but  for  their  winding  up. 
Pisanio  explains  of  Cloten's  departure  from  the  court, 
and  Guiderius  of  his  death.  Belarius  discloses  who 
the  young  deliverers  are.  Guiderius  is  proved  Imo- 
gen's brother  by  the  presence  upon  his  neck  of  a 
sanguine  star  like  hers.  There  are  other  not  less 
Arviragus  palpable  marks,  as  we  have  seen,  of  myste- 
ifsThe^*°  rious  kinship:  they  have  alike  the  objec- 
mother.  tivcness  and  the  simplicity  of  their  father. 
Arviragus  must  derive  his  vision,  and  his  exquisite 
love  of  the  beautiful,  from  his  mother.  Cymbeline, 
since  Imogen  is  his  once  more,  has  been  giving  her 
in  thought  the  kingdom.  Now,  it  shall  be,  not  hers, 
but  her  elder  brother's.  This  brings  regret,  for  she 
is  dearer  than  this  son,  whose  worth  is  yet  to  learn. 
Will  not  she  also  suffer  disappointment  at  such  loss 
of  power.?  Her  answer  (11.  373,  374)  is  the  noblest 
utterance  in  the  play  :  — 

No,  my  lord, 
I  have  got  tivo  ■worlds  by  it. 

'  Two  worlds,  —  my  father's  home,  and  mine.'     She 


CYMBELINE  V.  v  IO3 

would  not  exchange  these  for  the  glamour  of  a  court. 
And  does  she  not  mean  also  that  each  brother  brings 
a  new,  an  added  existence  for  herself  ? 

Surely   there   was   never  woman   more   unselfish. 
Her  Hfe  is  too  large,  too  full,  to   be   absorbed   but 
with  her  needs  and  joys.     Posthumus  is  her  ^.^^  ^^_ 
affinity  in  this ;  he  does  not  regret  the  king-  selfishness 
dom.      His   reconciUation   with    CymbeUne  °    •"°g^"- 
comes  last  of  all,  and  Shakespeare  slurs  it  over :  — 

/am,  sir, 
The  soldier  that  did  company  these  three 
In  poor  beseeming.     'Twas  a  fitment  for 
The  purpose  I  then  foUow'd. 

Cymbeline  is  kept  from  pronouncing  his  acquiescence 
here  by  the  plea  of  lachimo.     His  contrition  is  sin- 
cere, or  he  would  have  begged  and  connived  lachimo 
for  his  life  betimes.     He  has  been  saved  by  alone  has 

,  .  ,  .  ,  ,  .         ^  _  discerned 

his  comprehension  and  worship  of  Imogen  s  Imogen 
nobleness  and  worth ;  he  indeed  alone  has  completely. 
discerned  them  fully.  Posthumus  makes  his  for- 
giveness of  the  man,  who  has  sinned  so  grievously 
against  his  wife,  merely  incidental.  Should  he  not 
have  referred  the  case  to  her .-'  Shakespeare  seems 
to  hold  not  so.  As  Posthumus  puts  his  bracelet 
again  upon  the  arm  of  Imogen,  and  her  ring  again 
upon  his  hand,  he  speaks  to  the  kneeling  culprit  in 
the  divinest  human  charity,  —  once  known  and  under- 
stood indeed  as  Christian  :  — 

Kneel  not  to  me. 
The  power  that  I  have  on  you  is  to  spare  you, 
The  malice  towards  you  to  forgive  you.     Live, 
And  deal  with  others  better. 


I04  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

And  Imogen  says  no  word  of  protest.  Cymbeline, 
who  has  no  truculence  or  vindictiveness  in  his  nature, 
commends  the  clemency,  and  works  in  a  laconic  and 
dignified  amnesty  for  Posthumus :  — 

Nobly  doomed ! 
We'll  learn  our  freeness  of  a  son-in-law. 
Pardon 's  the  word  to  all. 

We  encounter  again  the  absurd  trumpery  of  the  label, 
which  we  must  consistently  reject.  If  we  drop  out 
the  Soothsayer's  paragraph,  and  Cymbeline's  re- 
sponse (11.  435-452),  we  shall  save  to  the  author 
something  of  his  deserved  and  usual  dignity  in  this 
closing  situation.  To  insure  an  harmonious  and 
graceful  close,  the  diction  takes  on  nobleness :  — 

The  fingers  of  the  powers  above  do  tune 
The  harmony  of  this  peace. 

.  .  .  Laud  we  the  gods; 
And  let  our  crooked  smokes  climb  to  their  nostrils 
From  our  blest  altars. 

Seldom  in  Shakespeare  have  commonplace  mean- 
ings been  cast  in  more  select  and  virile  interpretative 
diction. 

Many  readers  and  critics  have  taken  issue  with 
the  author  over  the  forbearance  of  Posthumus. 
lachimo,  they  say,  should  have  been  made  to  suffer 
a  condign  penalty.  But  it  does  not  appear  that 
Punitive T/j.  Posthumus  pardoned  the  guilt  of  lachimo, 
pursuit  of  ^^  ^^^^  ^^  h^-d  the  moral  right  or  indeed 
crime.  the  powcr  to  do  this  had  he  so  willed, 
lachimo's  crime  was  against  himself,  as  he  now 
knows.      The    most    advanced    criminal    theory   of 


CYMBELINE  V.  V  IO5 

these  times  would  hold  that  man  has  small  right  to 
pursue  the  offences  of  his  fellow  except  correctively. 
Imogen  did  not  forgive  Posthumus  for  his  attempt 
against  her  life,  for  she  refused  to  take  cognizance 
of  the  wrong.  Posthumus  suffered  more  as  the 
offender  than  she  the  victim,  and  she  pitied  him. 
It  is  to  be  sure  a  high  plane  of  existence  on  which 
the  author  takes  leave  of  his  heroine  and  hero,  but  the 
play  was  constituted  in  part  that  this  plane  might  be 
recognized.  Such  characters  and  such  conduct  are 
unusual,  and  as  the  world  would  judge,  unpractical. 
But  the  Christ  spirit  was  adjudged  unusual  and  un- 
practical two  thousand  years  ago.  Yet  that  spirit,  in 
kind,  rules  mankind  to-day.  The  only  question  here 
is  a  question  of  degree. 

Let  us  suppose  that  Imogen  had  not  been  large- 
minded  and  unpractical  when  she  gave  lachimo  his 
hearing  in  the  first  act.  Suppose  she  had  been  in- 
sufficient, in  self-estimate,  for  her  integrity,  and  had 
attempted  vindication  for  the  personal  affront. 
Suppose  that  lachimo  had  not  gone  away  from 
Britain  with  the  revelation  and  awe  of  the  The  forces 
truth  and  nobleness  that  possessed  his  soul,  grned"^' 
Suppose  he  had  come  to  the  battle,  not  lachimo. 
having  these  forces  in  him,  as  inspired  by  her,  but 
with  the  same  contempt  for  woman  that  he  pro- 
fessed at  first.  Would  he  have  opened  his  heart 
when  Imogen  asked  him  from  whom  he  had  obtained 
her  ring  .■'  If  he  had  at  that  time  told  other  than  the 
truth,  would  Posthumus  have  known  his  mistake, 
and   betrayed   his   grief  ?      If    Posthumus    had   not 


I06  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

known  his  mistake  and  betrayed  his  grief,  what 
would  have  been  her  future  or  his  own  ?  Or,  let  us 
suppose,  after  it  is  known  that  Guiderius  is  Cymbe- 
line's  oldest  child  and  heir  to  the  throne,  that  Imo- 
gen or  her  husband  attempt  to  contest  the  claim. 
That  would  have  been  practical  and  usual,  yet  much 
to  be  regretted.  After  all,  deep  down  in  our  natures, 
we  are  conscious  of  an  affinity  to  such  living,  and 
would  fain  enact  it  and  see  it  actualised  everywhere 
about  us.  We  are  much  nearer  this  consummation 
than  Shakespeare's  generation  was,  when  three 
hundred  years  ago  he  made  this  study  of  a  noble 
womanhood.     There  is  no  mystery  about  its 

The  mean-  -'  ■> 

ingofthe  triumph.  He  has  formed  Imogen's  nature 
P'*^"  and  career  according  to  a  principle  clear  to 

his  mind,  and  formulated  long  before  by  another  and 
greater  master  of  human  nature,  — Blessed  are  the 
meek,  for  they  shall  inherit  the  earth.  Nobody  in  the 
play  save  Imogen  '  inherits  '  anything.  She  does  not 
get  the  kingdom,  but  possesses  the  hearts  of  those 
who  rule.  In  her  amplified  and  sufficient  Hving 
those  who  are  about  her  live  and  have  their  being 
also. 

Thus  it  is  clear  how  Shakespeare  is  a  revealer  and 
interpreter  of  life.  We  cannot  say  that  his  creation 
How  exceeds  nature.     We  are  indeed  sure  that 

c„L!.;c,„   such  womanhood  has  existed  and  exists  to- 

speare  is  an 

artist.  day.     In    order   that   there  might  be  such 

a  daughter,  it  was  necessary  to  have  a  king-father 
that  the  Queen  could  hoodwink,  and  to  keep  us  from 
greatly   caring.    The  whole   court,   its   history,   the 


CYMBELINE  V.  v  10/ 

Queen,  Cloten,  and  indeed  Posthumus  are  but  the 
means  of  bringing  out  Imogen's  nature,  and  exist 
for  that  end  alone.  The  man  who  has  a  great  idea 
or  thought,  and  can  create  or  devise  means  by  which 
he  may  communicate  it  to  others  and  share  his  ex- 
periences of  it  with  them,  is  what  we  call  an  Artist. 
Shakespeare  is  thus  surely  an  artist  of  eminence. 
He  is  an  artist  also  because  he  knows  well  how  to 
inaugurate  causes  for  the  effects  he  wants,  and 
because  he  controls  our  sympathies,  making  us  love 
what  he  loves,  hate  what  he  hates. 

But  how  did  it  chance  that  Shakespeare,  who  gave 
his  hfe  largely  to  studies  of  feminine  character,  put 
off  the  portrait  just  analysed  till  almost  the  end  .''  It 
is  perhaps  a  common  assumption  that  Shakespeare 
was  not  content  with  the  womanly  figures  that  he 
had  painted  hitherto,  but  wished  to  supplement  them 
with  another  answering  more  nearly  to  his  individual 
and  perhaps  domestic  predilections.  There  are 
signs  indeed,  as  we  have  noted,  that  Cymbeline  was 
written  to  satisfy  a  personal  rather  than  a  dramatic 
ideal.  Its  author  had  entered  the  great  world,  and 
seen  probably  some  of  the  most  brilliant  women  of 
the  times,  at  least  in  England.  He  had  ^-^^^^ 
known  Elizabeth,  and  perhaps  admired  her ;  speare's 
but  he  painted  no  portrait,  save  one,  that  in  ""°  ^'^* 
the  least  resembled  her.  He  made  the  study  of  a 
highly  subjective  and  undisciplined  feminine  nature 
in  Cleopatra,  and  one  even  of  an  inherently  false 
personality  in  Cressida ;  but  such  types  did  not, 
except  for  the   moment,  engage   his   mind.     It   has 


I08  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

been  inferred  that  he  found  his  ideal  by  contraries, 
and  in  some  measure  by  way  of  his  conjugal  experi- 
ences and  history ;  but  of  this  there  is  not  so  much  as 
a  syllable  of  proof.  It  is  just  as  likely  that  he  made 
his  Imogen  on  the  model  of  Anne  Hathaway  or  of 
his  mother.  We  can  at  least  be  sure  that  Shake- 
speare wished,  in  this  play,  to  portray  a  typical 
Anglo-Saxon  lady,  a  woman  not  high-strung  or 
briUiantly  imaginative,  because  such  a  nature  is 
subjective,  liable  to  moods  and  ennui,  and  intolerant 
of  burdens.  So  he  has  wrought  a  home-maker,  a 
domestic  paragon,  yet,  by  virtue  of  her  spiritual 
insight,  and  her  beauty  and  worth  of  character, 
withal  a  queen.  To  forestall  the  paradox,  lest  we 
should  not  believe,  he  caused  her  to  be  born  in  a 
king's  palace,  and  invested,  in  the  idea  and  expecta- 
tion of  the  kingdom,  with  a  queen's  rights  indeed. 

Here  are  potent  suggestions  concerning  Shake- 
speare, both  as  an  artist  and  a  man.  What  he  must 
have  been  as  a  man,  to  have  made  such  a  study  as 
this  proves  to  be,  cannot  be  doubtful.  What  he  was 
as  an  artist  is  not  so  easy  to  comprehend ;  but  the 
construction  of  the  play  in  hand  has  made  some 
things  clear.  When  a  man  has  potential  notions  of 
such  goodness  and  worth  as  Imogen's,  which  he  has 
never  seen,  yet  knows  are  veritable  and  existent  in 
The  artist  different  degrees  and  forms  somewhere  in 
must  be  the  world,  we  say  that  he  has  vision,  or  is 
^  "^^  a  seer.  Many  people  have  revelations  of 
such  high  qualities  and  excellencies  of  character,  but 
cannot  communicate  them.     All  great  hterature,  and 


CYMBELINE  V.  v  IO9 

all  eminence  in  the  world  of  painting  and  sculpture 
and  music,  is  made  up  of  two  things,  "  Seeing  and 
Saying."  The  man  who  at  once  on  seeing  feels  it  in 
his  fingers  to  paint,  or  carve,  or  write  what  has  come 
into  his  mind,  is  essentially  an  artist.  So  no  one  can 
be  an  artist  who  does  not  preconceive  some  Imogen 
or  like  vision  of  the  Beautiful  or  the  True  to  paint  or 
make  a  play  about.  Every  man  who  does  have  such 
revelations,  and  can  make  everybody  else,  or  many 
or  most  people,  with  a  little  aid  or  education,  see 
what  he  sees  and  experience  the  inspiration  that  he 
has  felt,  is  an  artist,  as  has  been  said  in  part  before, 
typically  and  truly. 

It  will  be  expedient  to  alter  somewhat  the  manner 
of  interpreting  and  appropriating  Shakespeare  in  the 
remaining  pages.     We  have  been  trying  to 
make  over  the  meanings  of  his  poetry  and  speare's 
art  into  the  literal  terms  of  prose ;  but  this  ™ea"'"g'' 

^  '  not  trans- 

can  never  be  done  effectually.     A  work  of  latabie  into 

art  is  potential,  and  adapted  to  all  time.  ^^°^^- 
What  in  it  is  potential,  and  not  literal,  cannot  be 
imparted  by  mind  to  mind,  but  must  be  personally 
discerned.  To  know  a  play  of  Shakespeare  is  like 
knowing  a  great  picture.  One  must  study  it  patiently 
in  detail.  It  takes  a  month  to  study  a  great  picture 
over.  It  takes  more  than  a  month  to  know  a  play 
of  Shakespeare's ;  and  no  one  can  make  his  know- 
ledge do  duty  for  another's.  The  best  that  the  man 
who  has  studied  can  do,  as  in  the  case  of  a  picture, 
is  to  show  his  fellow  how  to  see.  No  one  mind,  save 
the  artist's,  sees  all.     Accordingly,  in  the  inspection 


no  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

of  the  plays  or  parts  of  plays  remaining  to  our  pur- 
pose, we  shall  forestall  as  little  as  may  be  ultimate 
knowledge  of  the  given  pit-ce,  which  it  is  the  reader's 
right  to  achieve  alone.  It  is  as  impertinent  in  litera- 
ture as  in  other  fields  of  art  to  thrust  upon  the  reader 
his  author's  meanings ;  though  the  end  here,  it  is  be- 
lieved, has  justified  some  deviation. 


I 


Ill 

THE   WINTER'S  TALE 

To  acquaint  us  with  antecedent  circumstances,  TJie 
Winter's  Tale  is  opened  with  a  dialogue  between  two 
court  gentlemen,  much  like  Q/W(^t'//;/^.    They  p  . 

explain  the  extraordinary  attachment  of  King  the  opening 
Polyxenes  for  the  King  of  Sicily,  and  meet  ^^^^^' 
the  improbability  of  the  former's  prolonged  visit  with 
Leontes,  somewhat  effectually,  in  advance.  Both 
join  in  praises  of  the  young  prince  MamiUius  ;  and 
this,  since  his  mother  may  hardly  be  discussed  here 
by  the  courtiers,  prepares  imagination  for  the  intro- 
duction of  the  Sicilian  Queen. 

But  when  Leontes  and  his  king  friend  come  before 
us  in  Scene  ii,  we  find  that  their  feehngs  toward  each 
other  have  undergone  of  late  some  change.  Polyxe- 
nes, with  much  of  rhetorical  circumstance  and  ele- 
gance, implies  to  his  comrade  that  he  has  stayed 
long  enough,  three-quarters  of  a  year,  and  must  be 
going.  He  would  like  to  express  adequately  his 
thanks,  but  that  would  occupy  as  many  months  as 
his  entertainment  has  already  lasted.  Leontes  is 
bound  to  reply  of  course  in  kind,  deprecating  the 
acknowledgment,  and  urging  a  yet  longer  visit.  Yet 
he  does  not  refute  the  obhgation,  or  make  as  if  the 
absence  of  his  friend  would  be  displeasing,  but  on 


112  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

the  contrary  implies  that  Polyxenes,  for  all  his  say- 
ing, does  not  mean  to  go.  That  makes  Polyxenes 
forget  his  circumlocutions,  and  affirm  curtly  that  he 
shall  go  to-morrow.  But  this  summariness,  in  the 
face  of  previous  dallies,  needs  explaining,  which  he 
attempts.  He  thinks  apparently  that  he  can  force 
his  royal  host  to  civility  by  suggesting  that  he  has 
stayed  so  long  as  to  become  a  burden.  Instead  of 
the  expected  protestings,  Leontes  implies  that  this  is 
true,  and  grimly  declares  that  he  has  indeterminate 
capacity  to  be  bored.  Polyxenes  by  this  has  got 
as  far  aside  from  court  parlance  as  his  friend,  and 
farther  even,  for  he  despoils  his  sentence  of  its  verb. 
Now,  surely,  these  royal  gentlemen  understand  each 
other.  Leontes,  not  in  irony,  but  for  very  shame,  pro- 
poses that  his  friend  remain  another  week.  Polyxe- 
nes will  not  budge  from  his  dignity  or  his  word, 
and  Leontes  suggests  that  they  split  the  difference 
and  put  the  limit  at  three  days  and  a  half.  At  this, 
Polyxenes  with  some  argument,  and  a  httle  less  pique 
perhaps,  begins  formal  talk  once  more.  No  tongue 
in  the  world,  he  affirms,  so  soon  could  move  him. 
But,  as  he  is  pleased  to  put  it,  his  affairs  do  even 
drag  him  homeward. 

All  this  while  Hermione,  the  Queen,  has  been 
standing  in  state  beside  her  husband,  watching  the 
issue  of  his  attempt  to  qualify  the  insult  to  his  guest. 
The  last  answer  of  Polyxenes  was  of  course  absurd 
enough.  Leontes  will  neither  contradict  it,  nor  allow 
the  scandal  of  an  immediate  departure.  So  he  calls 
upon  the  Queen  to  save  him  from  defeat.     And  the 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE   I.  ii  II3 

snappish  manner  as  well  as  matter  of  his  words  to 
her  show  why  she  has  not  taken  part  in  the  dialogue, 
and  why  he  has  till  now  ignored  her.  Leontes  is 
jealous,  and  is  willing  to  be  understood  as  believing 
that  Polyxenes  has  made  his  nine-months  stay  for  the 
sake  of  Hermione's  society.  Hermione  has  undoubt- 
edly had  intimations  before,  in  private,  of  Hermione 
her  husband's  feeling;  for  she  takes  great  ^""^^^3.^ 
pains  to  avoid  asking  Polyxenes  to  remain,  band. 
while  making  it  virtually  impossible  for  him  to  stand 
by  his  words  to  her  husband.  She  suggests  a  com- 
promise, the  '  borrow  of  a  week,'  being  careful  to 
name  the  same  time  that  Leontes  has  proposed.  She 
rallies  Polyxenes  volubly  and  brilliantly,  plying  him 
with  feigned  and  distant  importunity,  and  keeps 
withal  her  husband  from  working  in  a  further  word  :  — 

You'll  stay  ? 

No,  madam. 
Nay,  hit  you  will  f 

I  may  not,  verily. 
Verily ! 

You  put  me  off  with  nimble  oaths  ;  but  /, 
Though  you  would  seek  to  unsphere  the  stars  with  oaths, 
Should  yet  say  '  Sir,  no  going.^     '  Verily  ' 
You  shall  noi  go.     A  lady's  '  Verily  '  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yef,  — 
J^orce  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner, 
A^ol  like  a  guest  ?     So  you  shall  pay  your  fees 
When  you  depart,  and  save  your  thanks,     //ow  say  you? 
My  prisoner,  or  my  guest?     By  your  dread  '  Verily,' 
One  of  them  you  shall  be. 

Your  guest,  then,  madam. 

We  cannot  much  doubt  that    Polyxenes,  in  spite  of 
I 


114  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

the  rough  handling  that  he  has  received,  is  quite  will- 
ing to  remain.  The  attentions  of  Hermione  have 
salved  his  pride.  But  he  seems  wholly  invulnerable 
to  the  idea  that  trouble  may  come  to  her  from  seem- 
ing to  have  induced  him  to  change  his  mind. 

Of  course  there  is  Camillo,  and  there  are  attend- 
ants, present.  If  the  kings  are  not  brought  together 
again,  there  will  be  talk.  We  may  be  sure  that  the 
court  folk  understand  the  King's  feelings,  if  Polyxe- 
nes  does  not.  Hermione,  as  we  notice,  changes  the 
subject  instantly,  and  by  a  turn  that  she  thinks  will 
please  her  husband ;  but  in  her  haste  to  reach  a  con- 
clusion she  is  scarcely  edifying  to  his  friend :  — 

Was  not  my  lord 
The  verier  wag  o'  the  two? 

Or,  is  this  perhaps  to  afford  Leontes  the  chance  of 
retreat  from  his  insolence,  by  pretending  it  j^g^^j 
all  a  jest  ?  This  is  very  likely  the  Queen's  one's  self- 
purpose  ;  but  her  husband  fails  to  use  the  p°^^^^^'°"- 
opportunity,  remaining  silent  and  apparently  sullen 
as  before.  Polyxenes  is  willing  to  talk  to  the  point 
proposed,  but  steers  stupidly  and  squarely  into  an 
imphcation  that  the  Queen  follows  up  gayly  to  his 
discomfiture.  Leontes,  not  liking  the  freedom  or  per- 
haps the  topic  of  their  conversation,  looks  up  and 
asks  significantly  whether  he  is  '  won  '  yet.  Hermi- 
one makes  a  gentle  and  considerate  answer,  at  which 
Leontes  petulantly  (1.  87)  betrays  his  jealous  and  nar- 
row spirit:  — 

At  my  request  he  would  not ! 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE  I.  ii  115 

He  adds  ironically  that  she  has  never  spoken  to  bet- 
ter purpose.  This  she  receives  archly  and  lovingly, 
making  him  think  of  the  moment  when  she  Hermi- 
confessed  herself  his.  With  beautiful  chat-  o"e's  tact. 
ter  she  charms  from  him  some  pleasant  words,  and 
then  puts  an  end  to  the  interview  by  drawing  Polyxe- 
nes  aside.  She  sees  that  there  is  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  leaving  the  kings  longer  together. 

As  Hermione  is  ushered  aside,  in  Elizabethan  court 
fashion  by  her  guest,  Leontes  finds  a  new  occasion  to 
indulge  his  jealousy.  Nothing  is  happening  differ- 
ent or  differently  from  what  has  happened  any  day 
these  nine  months  past ;  but  Leontes  apparently  is 
finding  any  attention  or  civility  from  Polyxenes  to  his 
wife  of  late  unbearable.  We  recognise  this  hanging 
about  of  Polyxenes  —  his  Queen  {cf.  1.  34)  is  appar- 
ently not  living  —  as  preposterous  ;  and  while  we  do 
not  justify  Leontes  in  his  jealousy,  we  cannot  blame 
him  much  for  feeling  disturbed.  Mamillius,  left  for 
the  moment  by  his  mother,  stands  silently  near,  watch- 
ing with  strange  precocity  the  signs  of  trouble  in  his 
father's  face.  Though  the  lad  is  thoroughly  acute 
and  brilliant,  he  is  not  yet  of  years  that  enable  a 
princely  toilet;  and  his  nose  is  at  this  moment  in 
need  of  his  mother's  handkerchief.  We  have  just 
been  regretting  the  lengthening  moments  of  her  com- 
plaisance to  Polyxenes,  and  now  this  seeming  neglect 
has  palpable  influence  with  us  to  her  disadvantage. 
The  doubts  of  Leontes,  voiced  openly  concerning  the 
lad's  paternity,  have  by  no  means  an  ideahsing  effect 
upon  her  wifehood.     The  author  is  plainly  preparing 


Il6  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

for  another  plot  of  marital  misunderstanding,  but  less 
tenderly  as  touching  his  heroine  than  in  the  former 
play. 

The  element  of  time  is  requisite  in  establishing 
relations  as  significant  as  these.  The  author  makes 
Hermione  lead  her  guest  back  toward  Leontes,  who 
finishes  his  soliloquy  and  refuses  to  recognise  their 
approach.  Polyxenes  addresses  him,  and  without  an 
answer.  Hermione  speaks  to  him  with  more  serious- 
ness than  hitherto,  and  Leontes  rephes  civilly  to  her 
inquiry.  Polyxenes  comes  in  (11.  164,  165)  for  a  little 
recognition  when  Leontes  asks  :  — 

Art  you  as  fond  oi your  young  prince  as  we 
Do  seem  to  be  of  ours? 

Polyxenes  declares  that  his  son  is  all  his  exercise,  his 
mirth,  his  matter,  but  apparently  does  not  divine  the 
reason  why  Leontes  has  thus  drawn  him  out.  He 
seems  certainly  very  comfortable  after  almost  a  year's 
withdrawal  from  domestic  joys.  Leontes  is  more 
than  ever  aroused  over  this  naive  exhibition  of  in- 
consistency, and  goes  aside  with  Mamillius  from  the 
pair  at  once.  Manifestly  it  would  not  do  to  leave 
Hermione  and  her  husband's  friend  responsible  for 
going  apart  from  the  scene,  if  Leontes  is  to  stay. 
To  clear  the  stage  for  the  next  turn  of  the  plot, 
Leontes  is  made  to  send  Mamillius  off  by  himself  to 
play. 

It  would  have  in  some  respects  been  better  if 
Camillo  had  been  left  out  of  the  scene.  But  the 
author  wished  him  to  be  a  witness  to  the  yielding  of 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE   I.  ii  11/ 

Polyxenes,  and  the  jealous  conduct  of  Leontes. 
Furthermore,  to  make  a  new  scene  begin  here  would 
exalt  the  subordinate  matter  and  action  following  to 
an  equality  with  what  has  just  preceded.  So  the 
author  has  the  King  call  Camillo  to  his  presence. 
He  alludes  to  Polyxenes's  continued  stay,  and  finds 
Camillo,  —  for  a  very  different  reason  from  The  evoiu- 
what  he  suspects,  ready  to  talk.  Then  *(^°^°/iq. 
begins  the  evolution  of  Camillo's  consent  to  consent. 
serve  as  the  King's  tool.  We  see  that  Leontes  is 
naturally  a  very  jealous  man,  or  he  would  not  wish 
his  life-long  friend  killed  for  mere  suspicion.  He 
is  a  Sicilian,  and  exhibits  somewhat  of  the  intense 
and  summary  hatred  peculiar  to  his  race.  Camillo 
is  honest  as  courtiers  go,  and  makes  sure,  before 
he  engages  to  poison  Polyxenes,  that  the  King  will 
not  proceed  publicly  or  otherwise  against  Hermione. 
He  also  makes  Leontes  promise  to  treat  his  guest 
in  a  manner  that  will  avert  all  possible  suspicion. 

At  this  point,  were  the  subject-matter  here  what 
is  usual  in  the  first  act  of  a  play,  another  scene 
might  be  begun.  But  the  author  has  peculiar  mate- 
rial in  hand,  and  is  without  need  or  wish  to  develop 
into  dramatic  fulness  as  elsewhere.  He  is  really  in 
haste,  as  seems,  to  have  done  with  this  part  of  the 
plot.  Leontes  is  made  to  leave  the  stage,  that  we 
may  hear,  from  Camillo  in  a  soliloquy,  that  he  does 
not  blame  the  Queen,  and  that  he  has  no  least  inten- 
tion of  doing  the  King's  will.  Polyxenes  is  then 
brought  in  once  more,  receives  scant  courtesy  at  first 
from  Camillo,  and  tells  of  a  fresh  snub  from  the 


Il8  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

King.  Thus  the  resolution  for  his  flight  is  easily 
evolved.  We  are  glad  to  hear  his  consternation  (11. 
417-424)  at  Leontes's  charge,  and  to  know, — 

I  saw  his  heart  in 's  face,  — 

that,  in  spite  of  his  Bohemian  heaviness  and  slow- 
ness, he  has  seen  more  than  he  has  been  willing  to 
own  or  realise.  And  so  the  royal  guest  sneaks  away, 
by  the  postern  gates,  from  his  friend's  palace,  never 
for  a  moment  thinking  of  the  effect  his  flight  may 
have  upon  the  destiny  or  welfare  of  the  Queen. 

Hermione  is  perhaps  not  greatly  surprised  at  the 
outbreak  of  Leontes,  and  does  not  seem  troubled  at 
the  treatment  he  has  accorded  his  life-long  friend. 
She  is  not  sensitive  over  the  matter,  so  far  as  it  con- 
cerns herself,  and  will  scarcely  think  of  taking  her 
husband  to  task  for  his  unkingly  escapade.  The 
curtain  rises  next  probably  at  some  time  in  the  fore- 
noon of  the  day  following  the  last  scene.  Polyxenes 
and  Camillo  seem  not  to  have  taken  ship  till  after 
daylight.  The  central,  subordinating  figure  in  the 
Mamii-  group  now  shown  is  Mamillius,  who  prefers 
feiiow^sTs  ^^^  mother  to  the  sports  and  playthings  of 
mother.  the  royal  nursery,  and  has  wearied  her  with 
his  exactions.  The  smutched  nose  no  longer  wit- 
nesses imaginatively  against  her  motherly  offices  and 
regard.  That  was  but  for  the  moment,  while  the 
author  was  making  us  look  at  Hermione,  in  some 
measure,  from  her  husband's  eyes. 

It  is  a  situation  singularly  in  contrast  with  the 
scene   preceding.     The  pervading  strength  of  Her- 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE   II.  I  II9 

mione's  personality  is  discerned  everywhere,  and 
particularly  in  the  domestic,  substantial  character 
of  the  women  whom  she  has  chosen  as  her  court 
companions.  Mamillius  discourses  against  the  First 
Lady,  who  has  forced  too  many  hard  hugs  and  baby 
caresses  upon  him.  He  tries  to  tell  why  he  likes 
the  Second  Lady  better, —  that  something  in  her  face, 
which  he  is  sure  is  not  in  the  forehead,  but  gets  lost 
in  attempting  to  trace  because  of  his  general  lore  in 
eyebrows.  It  is  not  so  rare  that  a  lad  of  five  should 
see  acutely ;  but  that  he  should  say  wisely,  and  gen- 
eralise ingeniously,  surprises  even  the  court  women 
who  have  watched  him  since  his  birth.  It  is  not 
surely  from  his  father  that  he  has  inherited  or  ac- 
quired this  wisdom. 

It  is  thus  not  strange  that  Hermione's  women  talk 
to  Mamillius  as  if  he  were  much  older  than  he  is. 
The  mother,  rested  now,  asks  for  her  son  again.  He 
comes  back  to  her,  not  with  a  run,  and  a  leap  into 
her  lap,  but  sedately,  stopping  some  steps  from  her ; 
and  he  begs  for  nothing,  not  so  much  even  as  a 
story.  It  is  she  indeed  who  requests  the  story,  and 
from  him.  We  can  hear  his  boyish  tones,  almost, 
as  (11.  23,  25)  he  speaks  of  his  repertoire,  and  asks 
his  mother's  will :  — 

Merry  or  sad  shall 't  be? 
A  sad  tale  's  best  for  winter.     I  have  one 
Of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Most  children  can  be  scared  pretty  effectually,  as 
listeners,  by  tales  of  ghosts.  Here  is  one  who 
frightens    his    mother    by   telling    them;    and    she 


120  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

proudly  confesses  that  he  is  powerful  at  it.  He 
stands  like  an  orator  to  begin ;  but  she  makes  him 
sit  upon  her  knee.  Though  she  has  interrupted  him, 
he  completes  his  sentence  without  restarting,  —  a  rhe- 
torical feat  not  usual  to  his  years.  Dr.  Furness  sug- 
gests that  the  'crickets,'  who  are  not  to  hear,  are 
the  court  women,  and  thus  solves  an  unusually  hard 
puzzle  of  the  text.  We  may  understand  that  the 
First  and  Second  Lady  are  withdrawn  a  little,  that 
the  boy  and  his  mother  may  exchange  confidences  if 
they  will. 

It  is  a  beautiful  moment  which  we  could  have 
wished  prolonged.  But  we  are  not  permitted  to 
hear  more  than  the  first  softly  uttered  sentence,  for 
without  is  heard  the  excited  stride  of  intruding  feet. 
Without  request  or  permission  Leontes  and  his  lords 
push  their  way  into  the  Queen's  apartments.  News 
from  the  harbour  has  just  come  to  the  King,  and 
started  him,  half  crazed,  to  find  the  Queen.  The  flight 
of  Polyxenes  has  done  the  mischief,  for  this  to  Leon- 
tes in  his  present  mood  is  tantamount  to  an  admission 
of  guilt.  Leontes  has  undoubtedly  heard  the  details 
of  the  flight,  but  to  avoid  telling  Hermione  anything 
directly  he  makes  the  First  Lord  repeat  some  items. 
He  assumes,  or  affects  to  assume  perhaps,  that  she 
knows  already,  yet  will  pretend  ignorance  or  ask 
some  question.  We  may  be  sure  that  she  looks  on 
him  with  calm,  firm  eyes,  with  no  expectation  of  evil, 
Leontes  and  that  he  does  not  find  it  easy  to  meet 
addrelrthe  ^^^  S^ze.  Siucc  it  is  impossible  to  address 
Queen.        her,  he  flatters   himself   to  the  First  Lord 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE  II.  i  121 

over  the  soundness  of  his  suspicions,  and  rehearses 
his  wrongs,  expecting  perhaps  to  include  at  least 
some  reference  to  the  Queen's  share  in  the  conspir- 
acy against  his  life.  Since  Hermione,  as  he  thinks, 
refuses  to  take  his  meaning,  he  snatches  MamilUus 
from  her.  She  asks  him,  wonderingly,  if  this  is 
sport.  It  is  time,  evidently,  to  make  her  understand 
his  feelings,  but  he  cannot  accuse  her  even  yet 
directly.  His  evasion  is  to  speak  to  the  lords,  bid 
them  — 

Look  on  her,  mark  her  well.     Be  but  about 
To  say  '  she  is  a  goodly  lady,'  and 
The  justice  of  your  hearts  will  thereto  add 
*  'Tis  pity  she's  not  honest,  honourable.' 

It  is  a  painful  paragraph,  though  more  painful  to 
him  who  speaks  than  to  those  who  hear.  When 
Hermione  has  learned  at  last  the  ground  of  his 
trouble,  she  makes  (11.  78-81)  only  this  strong  and 
kindly  answer,  — 

Should  a  villain  say  so. 
The  most  replenished  villain  in  the  world, 
He  were  as  much  more  villain.     You,  my  lord. 
Do  but  mistake. 

There  is  no  rebuke,  or  anger,  or  personal  feeling  in 
this  reply ;  but  there  is  lofty,  disinterested  sorrow  for 
the  man  who  has  fallen  beneath  himself,  and  is  pre- 
paring for  humiliation.  The  conviction  and  certitude 
of  these  words  anger  Leontes  worse  than  sarcasm  or 
abuse,  could  she  have  used  them,  would  have  done. 
For  the  moment  he  dares  address  her  directly,  but 
he  quickly  goes  back  to  his  device  of   speaking  to 


122  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

her,  over  the  lord's  shoulders,  in  the  third  person. 
He  charges  her  with  being  a  traitor,  and  having 
made  Camillo  her  accomplice,  and  being  aware  of 
the  late  escape.  He  probably  knows  better,  but  he 
is  trying  to  scandalise  her,  and  break  in  any  way 
possible  her  exasperating  repose.  The  result  is 
worse  failure  than  before.  She  betrays  no  sign  of 
surprise  or  pain.  She  is  still  but  sorry  for  his  mis- 
takes, his  suffering. 

No,  by  my  life, 
Privy  to  none  of  this.     How  will  this  grieve  you, 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  thus  have  publish'd  me !     Gentle  my  lord, 
You  scarce  can  right  me  throughly  then  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

She  is  helpless,  but  will  not  acknowledge  it.  Since 
she  will  pretend  that  she  cares  nothing  for  her  hus- 
band's abuse  and  insults,  he  will  make  her  feel  his 
power.  He  orders  her  forth  to  prison,  and  condemns 
beforehand  all  who  would  plead  in  her  behalf.  Her- 
mione  is  not  dismayed  or  even  worried  at  the  prospect. 

There's  some  ill  planet  reigns. 
I  must  be  patient  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favourable. 

Evil  cannot  always  or  long  prevail.  She  is  willing 
to  wait  until  it  shall  give  way.  She  excuses  to  the 
lords  her  lack  of  tears,  and  declares  her  submission 
Hermi-  to  the  King's  will.  It  is  a  moment  of  sub- 
one's  faith,  ijj^g  triumph.  Strange  strength  is  abroad, 
surrounding  her  and  upholding  her,  making  her 
more  than  human  to  those  who  see   her   and   hear 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE   II.  i  1 23 

her  speak.  It  seems  to  Leontes  that  he  has  been 
silenced,  that  her  words  drown  out  his  royal  order. 
Nobody,  indeed,  remembers  it  or  is  conscious  of  its 
authority,  and  Leontes  actually  cries  out,  as  in  help- 
lessness, that  he  may  have  back  his  rights.  After  a 
little  silence,  while  the  whole  company  stands  awe- 
bound  yet,  Hermione  is  heard  requesting  of  the  King 
that  her  women  may  be  with  her  in  the  prison.  Le- 
ontes seems  not  to  hear,  for  there  is  no  consenting  or 
other  sound  at  all,  save  the  weeping  of  the  women. 
Then  Hermione,  after  some  words  (11.  11 8-1 24)  of 
comfort  to  the  attendants  and  of  farewell  to  her  hus- 
band, — 

Do  not  weep,  good  fools; 
There  is  no  cause.  .  .  .     This  action  I  now  go  on 
Is  for  my  better  grace.  —  Adieu,  my  Lord: 
I  never  wished  to  see  you  sorry;   now, 
I  trust,  I  shall,  — 

withdraws  herself  from  her  home  and  son.  When, 
of  her  own  motion,  followed  by  her  women,  she  has 
gone  some  steps  on  the  way  toward  prison,  Leontes 
repeats  his  order  to  the  halberd  men.  They  do  not 
arrest  her,  but  follow  her,  escort  her,  along  the  path 
that  she  is  choosing. 

After  she  is  gone,  and  the  soldiers  who  attend  her 
are  out  of  sight,  the  First  Lord  breaks  the  silence, 
begging  Leontes  to  call  the  Queen  again.  He  does 
not  speak.  The  First  Lord  and  Antigonus  plead. 
It  all  comes  to  nothing,  except  to  prepare  for  the 
knowledge  that  Leontes  has  applied  already  to 
Apollo's    oracle    for   enlightenment,  which    circum- 


124  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

Stance  makes  it  seem  that  he  had  not  at  first  intended 
Shake-  to  put  Hermione  4n  prison.  Of  course  the 
spearedoes  appeal  to  the  oraclc  at  Delphi  is  absurd,  as 

not  change  .  ,    .  ,    .  _,     .     . 

Greene's  the  play  IS  not  laid  m  pre-Lhristian  times, 
errors.  J3^^-  Shakcspcare  is  in  substance  drama- 
tising Greene's  novel  of  Dorastiis  and  Faw7iia,  first 
printed  in  1588,  and  very  popular;  and  Greene,  who 
knew  better,  makes  use  of  this  anachronism  in  that 
work. 

The  character  of  Hermione,  as  now  left  with  us, 
calls  for  some  melioration  and  relief.  She  is  not  in 
the  least  unwomanly,  but  her  self-sufficiency  and 
strength  seem  beyond  the  measure  of  her  sex.  Be- 
sides, it  may  be  that  we  have  retained  from  the  second 
The  uses  scene  of  Act  I,  where  she  was  presented  in 
of  Pauhna.  guch  a  Way  as  to  account  in  part  for  her 
husband's  jealousy,  some  impressions  of  indelicacy 
and  boldness.  That  he  may  remove  all  hint  of  man- 
nishness,  Shakespeare  introduces  Paulina,  a  character 
not  found  in  Greene,  in  the  next  scene.  As  soon  as 
we  have  sighted  her,  and  discerned  her  type,  we  for- 
get even  the  most  distant  suggestion  of  such  qualities 
in  the  Queen.  Like  things  are  done  in  the  modula- 
tion of  warm  effects  in  painting,  and  in  the  toilettes 
of  women.  Too  insistent  depths  of  hue,  too  great 
heaviness  or  indeed  brilliancy  of  colouring,  are  allevi- 
ated by  some  touch  of  new  pigment,  by  a  sash  or  rib- 
bon in  the  complemental  shade.  The  first  need  here 
is  to  humanise  and  soften  Hermione's  repose  of 
will. 

There  is  another  purpose,  as  we  at  once  discern, 


THE   WINTER'S   TALE   II.  iii  125 

why  a  Paulina  must  be  forthcoming  to  the  plot. 
Hermione,  since  immurement  in  the  prison,  has 
given  birth  to  a  daughter ;  and  it  is  necessary  that 
this  daughter  be  exposed  on  the  coasts  of  Bohemia ; 
for  Greene  makes  that  country  to  have  been  mari- 
time. The  motive  for  the  casting  out  of  the  child 
has  been  preparing  ever  since  the  length  of  Polyxe- 
nes'  stay  at  the  court  of  Sicily  was  shaped.  Leon- 
tes  will  deny  the  paternity  of  the  child, — so  much  is 
clear  ;  and  the  plot  will  make  him  attempt  to  destroy 
its  life.  But  how  is  the  child  to  be  brought  into 
Leontes's  power  ?  He  must  not  take  it  from  Her- 
mione by  force ;  we  should  revolt  at  that.  A  Paulina 
is  needed  who,  with  all-compelling  yet  mistaken  rea- 
sons, shall  require  it  from  its  mother,  and  commend 
it  to  its  father.  The  second  scene  makes  us  ac- 
quainted with  the  character  of  Pauhna,  and  outhnes 
the  plan  by  which  she  is  to  do  her  work. 

It  is,  however,  no  small  task  that  the  author  has 
proposed.     We  shall  not  easily  consent  to  the  cast- 
ing out  of  Hermione's  babe,  though  only  in  ^,^^     ^. 
a  play.     There  must  be  new  and  more  com-  out  of  the 
plete  compulsion ;  there  must  be  all  the  cir-  ^  '  * 
cumstance  and  inevitableness  of  real  life.     We  may 
be  sure  that  Shakespeare  divines  this  better  than  we 
can,  and  that  he  will  make  his  causes  yield  none  but 
just  conclusions.      At  the  opening  of   scene  iii,   we 
find  that  he  has  been  at  work,  in  thought,  to  meet 
the  exigencies  of  the  case.    He  has  arrayed  new  forces 
on  the  side  opposite  to  the  Queen,  and  in  the  person 
of   her   husband.     The   spirit   with   which    she    has 


126  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

borne  her  wrongs  would  have  conquered  him,  were 
he  not  too  proud  to  yield.  Her  silence  is  an  indict- 
ment of  his  good  sense.  Her  quiet  waiting  for  the 
vindication  of  her  integrity  maddens  him.  No  such 
moment  must  be  allowed  to  come.  He  will  destroy 
her,  and  rid  himself  of  fears  lest  she  be  innocent. 
She  has  pained  him  enough,  in  any  case,  to  merit 
death.  By  thus  showing  Leontes  determined  to  burn 
Hermione  at  the  stake,  unless  her  innocence  be 
proved,  the  author  makes  us  subordinate  the  fate  of 
the  child  to  hers  for  the  time  being ;  and  we  shall 
not  know  what  becomes  of  her  for  two  scenes  yet. 
So  we  are  prepared,  by  the  new  truculence  of  Leon- 
tes, to  make  unexpected  concessions  to  the  plot. 

The  King  is,  besides,  in  a  state  of  unwonted  irrita- 
bility from  lack  of  sleep.  He  has  taken  upon  him- 
self to  instruct  his  son  in  his  mother's  shames ;  and 
these,  he  believes,  have  induced  the  sickness  of  which 
he  tells.  But  we  know  that  it  is  his  pursuit  of  the 
boy's  mother  that  has  wrought  the  mischief.  We 
see  now  why  the  author  has  given  Mamillius  an 
understanding  so  far  beyond  his  years.  He  is 
wanted  as  a  factor  in  the  coming  tragedy. 

Of  all  moments  in  the  play,  it  is  now  that  Paulina 
chooses  to  appear,  bringing  the  Queen's  babe  before 
the  King.  Such  women  have  no  idea  of  times  or 
seasons.  They  are  as  nettles  to  weak  nerves. 
Leontes  stands  in  awe  of  Hermione's  womanly 
strength ;  and  any  suggestion  of  her  nature  in  an 
aggressive  or  shrewish  form  will  be  especially  exas- 
perating to  him  now.     He  appears  to  have  charged 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE  II.  in  127 

Antigonus  to  keep  his  wife  away ;  and  the  answer 
(11.  44,  45)  of  that  henpecked  nobleman,  — 

I  told  her  so,  my  lord, 
On  your  displeasure's  peril,  and  on  mine, — 

seems,  for  the  moment,  as  amusing  to  the  half-insane 
Leontes  as  to  us.  The  situation  at  any  rate  is  not 
acute  until  Paulina  announces  that  she  has  come 
from  his  good  Queen.  She  bandies  words  with  him, 
till  he  orders  his  guards  to  force  her  from  the  room. 
She  threatens  to  scratch  out  the  eyes  of  any  one  who 
shall  lay  hand  on  her,  holding  the  babe  in  her  arms 
the  while. 

It  is  evidently  the  author's  purpose  to  produce  a 
situation  intense  enough  to  cover  the  transfer  and 
removal  of  the  child.  It  is  interesting  to  watch  the 
steps  by  which  he  advances  to  the  solution  of  his 
problem.  He  first  makes  Paulina,  who  cannot  imag- 
ine that  any  harm  will  befall  the  child,  lay  it  down, 
as  from  the  Queen,  at  the  King's  feet.  Leontes  com- 
mands Antigonus  to  take  it  up,  but  that  nobleman 
does  not  obey.  Then  follows  a  heated  parley.  The 
King  charges  Paulina  with  having  lately  beaten  her 
husband.  Neither  Antigonus  nor  his  wife  denies 
this,  or  seems  to  think  it  of  any  moment.  Paulina  is 
tactless  enough  to  attempt  the  identification,  to  the 
lords,  of  the  King's  features  in  the  face  of  the  child. 
Leontes  is  less  violent  over  this  than  could  have  been 
expected,  having  reached,  for  that  matter,  something 
like  a  climax  of  passion  before  the  opening  of  the 
scene.     He  declares  that  he  will  have  her  burnt,  but 


128  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

she  defies  him  all  the  same.  He  then  bids  the 
guards,  on  their  allegiance,  to  hale  her  forth.  They 
approach,  and  we  expect  a  scene.  Thus  is  our  atten- 
tion drawn  away  from  the  child,  as  a  centre  of  inter- 
est, to  Paulina,  who  does  not  after  all  resist  but  goes 
docilely  away. 

The  protector  of  the  child  is  now  removed;  so 
much  of  the  task  is  done.  Leontes  now  turns  to 
The  need  Antigonus,  and  bids  him  carry  the  babe 
of  an  An-  away,  and  see  it  immediately  committed  to 
tigonus.  ^j^g  flames ;  this,  in  punishment  for  obedi- 
ence to  his  wife  instead  of  to  himself.  Shake- 
speare gives  us  a  good  scare  here,  making  us  believe 
that  he  intends  that  fate.  But  he  means  merely  to 
frighten  us,  dramatically,  with  this  prospect  of  death, 
that  we  may  consent  to  the  lesser  evil.  He  has  but 
to  make  the  lords  beseech  for  the  child's  life,  to  win 
the  King's  consent  that  it  shall  not  die,  but  be  ex- 
posed instead.  As  the  tool  for  this  dastardly  deed 
he  has  prepared  Antigonus.  Except  that  this  man 
had  been  henpecked  so  thoroughly,  he  would  have 
withheld  consent. 

Even  with  all  these  forces  arrayed  against  Her- 
mione's  child,  we  should  scarcely  have  consented  to 
the  plot,  save  for  the  sudden  news  that  the  messengers 
from  Delphi  are  returned.  We  believe  that  in  this 
lies  hope  for  both. 

The  third  act,  as  will  be  noted,  opens  usually  in 

Shakespeare  with    new  elements  and  new 

Proof  of       action.    The  first  scene  here  is  meant  in  part 

the  visit  ' 

to  Delphi,    to  show  US  in  advance  that  the  visit  to  Delphi 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE   III.  ii  1 29 

has  been  really  made ;  for  it  will  be  in  due  time 
alleged  that  the  oracle  is  ungenuine.  Properly,  save 
for  the  deviation  and  delay,  the  temple  at  Delphi 
should  be  shown  ;  we  should  have  had  some  direct 
experience  of  the  magnificence  of  the  place  and  the 
stateliness  of  the  ceremony,  and  seen  Cleomenes  and 
Dion  receive  the  sealed-up  responses  from  the  priest. 
But  what  we  have  is  an  effectual  substitute.  We 
see  the  messengers  hastening  for  Hermione's  sake, 
and  we  hear  them  tell  of  what  they  have  seen  and 
how  they  have  been  impressed ;  and  we  are  as  a 
matter  of  course  persuaded,  though  unconsciously, 
that  they  have  been  at  Delphi,  and  that  they  believe 
they  are  rendering  the  Queen  true  service. 

The  second  scene  opens  with  a  court  assembly. 
Leontes  has  probably  found  out  that  there  is  a  strong 
sentiment  in  the  kingdom  against  the  im-  The  trial  of 
prisonment  of  his  Queen,  in  her  condition,  the  Queen. 
on  mere  suspicion.  '  Let  us  be  cleared,'  he  says, 
'of  being  tyrannous;  since  we  so  openly  proceed  in 
justice.'  Then  he  bids  the  officers  produce  the 
prisoner ;  and,  after  a  little  interval,  while  we  have 
time  to  be  impressed  with  the  augustness  and  formal- 
ities of  the  tribunal,  Hermione  is  ushered  in.  Though 
unaware,  perhaps,  of  our  feelings  toward  her,  we 
have  surely  been  waiting  for  this  moment.  Her- 
mione has  lost  nothing  in  our  sight  since  she  so 
grandly  went  forth  to  prison.  Paulina  is  her  closest 
attendant  and  will  be  soon  in  requisition,  we  may 
assume,  in  the  same  manner  as  before. 

It   is   no    English   court   of  justice.     In  Greene's 

K 


130  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

novel  there  is  mention  of  a  jury;  but  Shakespeare 
will  invite  no  feelings  of  reverence  for  this  trial. 
The  King  is  both  prosecutor  and  judge.  Hermione 
appears  without  advocate  or  counsel.  But  she  feels 
no  need  of  either.  When  the  indictment  is  read  she 
rises  and  (11.  23-29)  begins  to  address  the  court :  — 

Since  what  I  am  to  say  must  be  but  that 

WTiich  contradicts  my  accusation,  and 

The  testimony  on  my  part  no  other 

But  what  comes  from  myself,  it  shall  scarce  boot  me 

To  say  '  not  guilty.'     Mine  integrity 

Being  counted  falsehood,  shall,  as  I  express  it, 

Be  so  received. 

She  feels  no  personal  indignation  or  concern.  She 
does  not  hope  that  she  will  be  cleared ;  but  she  is 
sublimely  persuaded  that  right  is  more  potent  than 
injustice,  and  that  her  endurance  of  wrong  will  in 
the  end  defeat  the  malice  of  her  persecutors. 

But  thus:  i/ powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions,  —  as  they  do, 
I  doubt  not  then  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience. 

Her  absolute,  unshrinking  faith  in  moral  order  has 
allied  the  powers  of  the  universe  in  her  defence,  and 
made  the  august  tribunal  seem  but  a  cheap  and  sorry 
Hermi-  spectaclc.  Lcontcs  had  very  likely  per- 
one's  faith  suaded  himself  that  by  the  pomp  and  cere- 
power  of  mony  of  his  conclave  of  judges  and  lords 
truth.  ^j^(j  doctors  learned  in  the  law  he  could  awe 

her  and  break  her  will.  He  finds  this  array  of  author- 
ity very  inadequate  to  the  humiliation  and  silencing 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE  III.  ii  131 

of  such  a  prisoner.  She  is  greater  in  her  integrity 
than  all  the  judicature  of  the  realm.  He  essays 
to  beat  down  her  dignity  by  domestic  retorts.  With 
almost  divine  consideration,  ignoring  his  carping, 
spiteful  humour,  she  speaks  to  the  petty  questions 
that  he  raises,  arguing  with  sublime  fervour.  It  is 
withal  a  woman's  pleading  through  and  through. 

More  than  mistress  of 
What  comes  to  me  in  name  oi  fault,  I  must  not 
At  all  acknowledge. 

When  the  King  attempted  first  to  accuse  Her- 
mione,  before  her  women  and  MamiUius,  in  the  first 
scene  of  the  last  act,  he  was  put  to  summary  and 
stern  confusion.  That  was  but  a  personal  attack. 
The  attempt  here  has  been  to  impugn  her  publicly, 
as  Queen  of  Sicily,  and  to  exploit  the  Leontes 
national  machinery  of  justice  against  her.  i°n?iy'^ 
The  failure  has  been  even  more  abject  and  dignity. 
pitiable.  *  Nature  stretcheth  out  her  arms,'  says 
Emerson,  '  to  man,  only  let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal 
greatness.'  The  majesty  of  Hermione's  mind  has 
subordinated  the  pride  and  power  of  Sicily.  Leontes 
has  no  resource  but  to  make  new  and  absurd  allega- 
tions, and  affirm  that  her  fate  is  sealed  already. 
This  stirs  no  rebellious  feeling,  for  very  different 
sentiments  (11.  92-97)  possess  her  wholly  :  — 

Sir,  spare  your  threats. 
The  bug  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek. 
To  me  life  can  be  no  commodity. 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favour, 
I  do  give  lost,  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 
But  know  not  how  it  went. 


132  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

That  her  husband  has  not  forfeited  her  affection,  in 
spite  of  all  that  he  has  done  to  extinguish  it,  that  she 
misses  it  and  desires  it  even  in  these  moments  of 
abuse,  touches  the  extreme  of  pathos,  and  gives  us 
the  measure  of  her  character  and  devotion. 

The  climax  of  the  scene  is  quickly  reached.  Her- 
mione  appeals  from  the  King  to  the  lords,  and  the 
court  at  large,  and  asks  for  the  decision  of  the  oracle. 
No  one  has  the  right  of  speech  in  sessions  save  with 
the  King's  permission;  but  the  First  Lord  declares 
fearlessly  that  the  appeal  is  just,  and  demands,  in 
Apollo's  name,  that  the  messengers  be  sent  for. 
There  is  a  spell  upon  the  company,  and  the  officers 
feel  the  summons  of  a  higher  law  than  the  King's 
will.  They  bring  in  Cleomenes  and  Dion  quickly. 
The  oath  is  administered,  the  seals  are  broken,  and 
the  head  officer  reads  the  findings  of  Apollo's  court : — 

Hermione  is  chaste  ;  Polyxenes  blameless  ;  Camillo 
a  true  subject ;  Leontes  a  jealous  tyrant ;  his  inno- 
cent babe  truly  begotten  ;  and  the  king  shall  live  with- 
out an  heir,  if  that  which  is  lost  be  not  found. 

We  may  be  sure  that  hearts  beat  hard  throughout 
the  audience,  as  the  officer  reads  these  ringing  sen- 
tences. When  he  has  finished,  the  lords  break  out 
into  exclamations  of  gratitude  to  Apollo.  Hermione 
shows  no  such  excitement,  being  heard  to  utter  but 
the  one  word.  Praised  !  Leontes  impugns  the  oracle, 
and  proposes  to  push  the  sessions  forward  even  to 
the  sentencing  of  the  Queen.  But  a  servant  runs  in 
distractedly,  and  interposes  a  message  from  the  palace. 
Mamillius,  with  merely  imagining  what  has  happened 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE  III.  li  133 

or  will  happen  to  his  mother,  on  this  day  of  her  trial, 
what  with  his  sickness  and  anxiety  hitherto, 

■'  Hermione 

has  passed  away.    Hermione  listens  with  firm  overcome 
nerves.     Then  she  hears  Leontes  say  that  o"'y  by'he 

-'  confession 

he  has  not  been  sincere  in  his  jealousy,  that  of  her 
he  has  pursued  her  and  distressed  her  with  ^"^^^"'^• 
injustice.     That  is  too  much,  and  she  falls  in  a  dead 
swoon. 

Then  all  is  changed  in  this  august  judgment  hall. 
There  is  no  confusion,  no  babbling  of  tongues,  for 
every  eye  is  fixed  upon  the  King.  Never 
since  he  took  the  crown  has  he  been  such  crucifies  his 
an  object  of  interest  as  now.  He  is  implor-  P"*^^" 
ing  Apollo  to  be  forgiven  for  his  profaneness  against 
the  oracle.  In  the  face  of  all  the  jurisconsults  and 
lords  and  doctors  he  is  heard  confessing  his  plot 
against  Polyxenes,  and  detailing  how  he  threatened 
and  bribed  Camillo  to  become  his  tool.  He  was  too 
proud  before  to  bow  to  the  moral  superiority  of  his 
Queen.  Now  the  gods  have  humbled  him  in  the 
sight  of  all  the  kingdom.  And  he  is  withal  wholly 
contrite  and  content. 

The  court  scene  has  done  its  work.  But  the  author 
is  evidently  unwilling  to  close  it  here,  and  leave  with 
us  certain  drastic  impressions  that  it  has  made.  He 
will  subordinate  it  and  merge  it  in  a  situation  Furtheruse 
that  shall  make  amends  to  its  intended  vie-  ^^  Paulina. 
tim.  Paulina  turns  the  undismissed  sessions  into  an 
arraignment  of  the  plaintiff  King,  and  reads  against 
him  a  feminine  indictment  that  stirs  our  pity.  The 
bitterness  of  this  invective  is  then  utilised  as  the  occa- 


134  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

sion  of  making  Pauline  relent,  and  beg,  with  tears, 
forgiveness  from  the  King.  Thus,  with  vehement 
speed,  is  the  wicked  and  cruel  past,  so  necessary  to 
the  plot,  lifted  from  our  consciousness,  and  a  brighter 
future  prepared  for.  There  is  but  the  exposing 
of  the  child  to  be  enacted,  and  this  is  quickly  added 
in  another  scene.  The  author  keeps  us 
sent  to  the  f rom  rcvolt  by  new  and  stronger  indignation 
exposure  of  a^ainst   Antigonus.      This  is  achieved   by 

the  child.  ^  ,  .  ,  .         ,  ^    ^  t  •  • 

makmg  him  dream  of  Hermione  weepmg, 
as  in  punishment,  and  imploring  him  to  carry  her 
child  to  Bohemia.  When  he  salves  his  conscience 
for  doing  the  King's  villany  by  insisting  against  his 
better  light  that  the  child  will  be  laid  upon  the  earth 
of  its  right  father,  we  are  done  with  him.  The  poetic 
justice  of  his  being  torn  in  pieces  by  the  bear,  a  turn 
analogous  to  the  taking  off  of  Cloten  in  the  former 
play,  draws  away  our  thought  from  the  babe,  which 
is  at  no  moment  out  of  protection  or  our  sight.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  shepherd's  talk,  on  his  discovery 
of  the  child,  the  play  passes  over  from  tragedy  to 
comedy. 

There  are  marked  differences  here  from  the  con- 
ception and  treatment  of  the  main  figure  in  Cymbelme. 
Imogen's  "^^  ^^^  drama  Imogen  conquers,  without 
unepic  intending  resistance,  in  a  domestic,  wifely 
^"^  °''y-  way,  by  influences  of  meekness  and  good- 
ness that  go  out  from  her  being.  Hermione  is 
stronger  in  presence  and  personality,  and  prevails  in 
a  truly  heroic  mood.  Imogen  was  accused  by  her 
husband  in  absence,  with  only  a  trusty  servant  to 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE  III.  n  1 35 

share  the  secret  of  her  disgrace.  Hermione  is  ma- 
ligned by  her  husband  personally  and  in  presence,  in 
the  hearing  or  knowledge  of  all  the  kingdom.  Imo- 
gen's beautiful  patience  is  thoroughly  ruffled,  for  the 
moment,  by  the  perfidious  and  unmanly  conduct  of 
Posthumus.  Hermione  does  not  resist  the  evil  pur- 
poses of  her  husband  by  so  much  as  a  frown.  He 
does  not  find  it  possible  to  goad  her  into  „ 

'^  ^  Hermione 

recalcitrant  feeling  against  him.  He  loses  resists  not 
in  consequence  the  support  and  sympathy  ^^' " 
of  his  lords,  and  his  own  self-respect.  He  is  discom- 
fited, disarmed,  humiliated.  We  cannot  very  confi- 
dently explain  the  secret  of  Hermione's  triumph,  or 
declare  the  philosophy  of  such  a  rout.  Examples 
of  the  like  have  been  too  few  for  study.  We  remem- 
ber that  a  great  master  of  human  wisdom  once  pre- 
scribed such  a  course  as  Hermione  has  pursued,  and 
by  it  indeed  rose  to  the  chief  place  in  human  history. 
It  seems  clear  that  from  evil  when  as  here  unresisted, 
not  for  the  glorification  of  the  saint,  but  from  pity  of 
the  sinner,  indeterminate  power  for  good  may  spring. 
It  is  thus  evident  that  we  have  in  Hermione  a 
study  of  character  in  important  respects  supplemental 
to  Imogen ;  and  there  are  reasons  for  supposing  it  a 
later  creation.  It  is  not  at  all  likely  that  Shakespeare 
intended  to  dramatise  an  important  doctrine  from  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount.  He  is  not  attempting  to  com- 
pose a  religious  play.  He  may  indeed  have  been  all 
unaware  that  the  principle  on  which  he  built  Hermi- 
one's greatness  was  other  than  a  fundamental  law  of 
human  nature.     He  was  just  finishing  his  career  as  a 


136  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

dramatic  artist,  and  could  have  scarcely  been  con- 

,    .  cerned,  more  than  in  Cymbelme,  about  the 

fluenceof     popularity   of    the   piece.      In    no   dramas 

these  plays  j^ggj^jg    j^g^s  ]-^g   allowed   such   incongruities 

on  Snake-  _  ° 

speare's  and  absurditics  of  plot  as  in  these  two.  Did 
audiences,  ^j^^  coarsc  Watermen  and  street  loafers  under- 
stand what  was  put  before  them  in  the  impersona- 
tions of  Hermione  and  Perdita  and  Imogen  .''  We 
may  reasonably  doubt  whether  the  acting  showed 
these  women  as  fully  as  we  have  had  them  revealed 
to  us.  But  the  Globe  and  the  Blackfriars  could  not 
surely  have  been  ill  places  to  go  to,  if  there  and  there 
alone  in  England  and  all  Christendom  were  the  influ- 
ences that  we  have  been  experiencing,  from  these 
characters,  supplied  in  a  literary  way.  No  such 
womanhood  as  Hermione's  or  Imogen's  had  been  por- 
trayed before,  nor  has  seemingly  the  counterpart  of 
either  been  conceived  or  painted  since.  Imogen's 
childlike,  spontaneous  feminine  nature,  which  she 
does  not  repress,  is  supremely  beautiful.  But  Her- 
mione's character,  in  its  saintly  faith  and  Christly 
self-repression,  touches  the  heights  of  the  subhme. 

In  Shakespeare's  dramas  there  is  always  a  subjec- 
tive climax  at  the  middle  of  the  third  act;  such 
The  out-  events  are  placed  or  shaped  there  as  enable 
come  pre-     ^g  j-q  diviuc  the  outcomc  of  the  play.     We 

figured  at  .  ^       -' 

the  middle  are  surc,  for  instance,  here  that  the  Queen 
of  a  play.  ^^^  YwQ,  that  the  child  will  be  brought  back, 
and  that  Hermione  will  be  reconciled  to  her  husband. 
But  we  must  not  rate  this  prefigurement  of  the  plot 
issue  as  of  large  importance.     The  play  that  we  have 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE  137 

in  hand  is  not  a  play  of  incident.  It  makes  little 
difference,  as  such,  whether  Hermione  sustains  the 
revelation  of  her  husband's  baseness,  or  succumbs 
to  it.  The  lesson  of  her  constancy  and  largeness  of 
soul  proceeds  with  us  in  either  outcome  equally. 
She  is  endowed  and  prepared  to  achieve  a  singularly 
beautiful  and  complete  existence.  Shakespeare  rec- 
ognised that  only  such  are  fittest  to  survive,  and  has 
made  her  live ;  though  the  heroine  of  Greene's  novel 
has  no  such  fortune.  By  the  offices  of  Paulina,  the 
Queen,  who  does  not  wish  to  see  her  husband,  is 
kept  apart  from  the  palace.  By  dint  of  certain  jug- 
gling, for  which  she  is  not  responsible,  and  which  we 
need  not  be  curious  about,  she  is  reported  dead,  and 
ostensibly  carried  to  her  grave  in  public  funeral ; 
and  Leontes  is  allowed,  for  years  following,  to  show 
his  grief  daily  at  her  monument. 

This  part  of  the  plot  is  surely  far  from  pleasing ; 
and  were  it  not  for  the  importance  of  the  personality 
that  it  is  used  to  reveal,  would  have  proved  wholly 
unacceptable.     To  some  expounders  and  critics,  who 
have  apparently  not  discovered  what  the  play  was 
written   for,    it   has    seemed    absurd.       Shakespeare 
could   undoubtedly  have   devised  a   better   scheme. 
Yet,  when  we  have  come   to  know  his  conception 
of   Hermione,  we  are  not  so  sure  that   he  ^^^  g^^ 
would  have  exchanged  it,  under  any  circum-   lime  not 
stances,  for  one  that  we  should  call  a  better,   f^lcdve  ^' 
There  is  no  chain  of  causation  here  of  the  vvith  the 
kind  that  was  found  in  Cymbeline.     Hermi- 
one has  no  such  influence  on  those  surrounding  her  as 


138  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

Imogen  exerts,  because  no  one  with  power  to  aid  her 
has  understood  her.  The  lords  have  divined  some- 
thing of  her  nature,  so  have  her  women,  but  both 
are  powerless  to  change  her  fate.  Mamillius  has 
discerned  her  best,  in  his  degree,  but  that  under- 
standing has  cost  him  his  hfe.  The  husband  is 
wholly  incapable  of  recognising  the  differences  be- 
tween her  and  any  other  woman,  with  equal  beauty, 
of  half  her  worth.  She  has  not  indeed  discovered 
or  understood  herself ;  such  natures  never  do.  The 
most  saintly  and  complete  in  character  and  living 
Hermione  are  least  aware  of  the  truth  and  nobleness 
a  lone  and    ^^^  charity  that  make  them  different  from 

solitary  J 

figure.  their  fellows.  Hermione  is  pathetically  lone 
and  solitary  in  her  greatness,  and  this  it  is  that  has 
well-nigh  wrought  her  martyrdom.  But  she  does 
not  know  the  source  of  her  misfortunes.  Only  the 
author,  and  the  reader  whom  he  lends  eyes  to  see, 
understand  her  secret. 

The  great-souled  live  mainly,  perforce,  apart,  in 
the  soUtudes  of  their  own  being.  Imogen  spent 
most  of  the  hours  of  her  work  and  waiting,  in  the 
play  called  Cymbeline,  with  no  one  to  share  or  en- 
hance her  inmost  living.  Even  Posthumus,  restored, 
will  approach  but  distantly  to  her  true  self,  and  will 
fall  far  short  of  completing  her  existence,  though 
she  will  never  know.  An  Emerson  is  at  best  but 
a  good  Ustener ;  he  cannot  be  social  in  his  seership. 
So  a  deeply  spiritual  nature,  except  it  give  itself  to 
public  utterance  or  ministerings,  as  Hermione  can- 
not, will   fail  of  appreciation   and  may  be   grossly 


THE   WINTER'S   TALE  1 39 

misapprehended.  Hermione  has  grown  up  from 
girl  to  woman  in  a  fascinating,  but  strange  Hermi- 
reserve.  Her  quantum  of  personality  has  cina^ing^' 
attracted  to  her  a  wooer;  she  has  been  reserve. 
wedded,  and  made  a  queen.  But  there  is  nothing 
in  this  which  has  merged  her  real  existence,  or  mate- 
rially enlarged  it.  It  is  the  curse  of  such  natures, 
men  as  well  as  women,  that  they  overestimate  the 
spiritual  wealth  of  other  people,  and  seldom  wed 
where  they  shall  grow.  Hermione  has  become  a 
mother,  and  yet  her  best  of  living  has  been  apart 
from  her  children.  She  is  not  unmotherly,  but  the 
motherhood  in  her  is  not  paramount,  and  does  not 
subordinate  or  absorb  her  life.  Leontes,  expecting 
perhaps  a  partner  that  should  be  centred  in  himself, 
has  missed  the  wifehood  and  motherhood  that  can- 
not be.  He  finds  in  Hermione  a  sufficiency  and 
dignity  that  seem  to  leave  him,  her  lord  and  husband, 
supernumerary,  and  this  furnishes  him  with  a  griev- 
ance. When  he  has  observed  that  this  very  superior 
wife  of  his  has  become  an  object  of  interest  to  his 
friend,  he  is  betrayed  into  seizing  it  as  an  occasion 
to  subordinate  her,  and  humiliate  her,  and  usurp  her 
eminence,  though  he  knows  there  has  been  no  guilt, 
A  queen  of  an  intellectual  and  spiritual  stature  no 
greater  than  his  own  would  have  furnished  no  occa- 
sion for  misunderstandings. 

The  limitations  of  the  plot,  as  the  necessity  of  a 
Perdita  born  after  the  opening  of  the  play,  and  be- 
trothed long  before  its  close,  are  the  most  serious  that 
Shakespeare  anywhere  grapples  with,  and  with  an 


140  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

inferior  heroine  would  have  spoiled  the  play.  There 
are  sixteen  years  of  waiting  to  which  the  reader  must 
be  conciliated,  and  for  which  some  sort  of  artistic 
justification  must  be  devised.  To  have  Hermione 
stay  away  from  her  husband,  for  this  period,  in  anger 
or  from  mere  spite,  would  of  course  spoil  all.  Her- 
Hermione  niioue  has  no  vindictive  feeling,  no  least 
not  unwiii-  dcsire  to  exact  suffering  from  him  in  propor- 
tufn  to'^^her  ^iou  to  the  Suffering  he  has  brought  on  her. 
husband,  ghc  docs  not  proposc  to  forgivc  and  forget, 
for  the  matter  Hes  not  in  her  choice.  "  The  King 
shall  live  without  an  heir,  if  that  which  is  lost  be  not 
found."  The  meaning  of  the  gods  to  her  is  plain : 
she  must  not  return  to  her  husband  until  her 
daughter  is  brought  back  to  her.  She  who  resists 
not  evil  by  so  much  as  a  word,  a  look,  can  await 
with  the  same  infinite  patience  the  higher  will.  The 
sublime  truth  in  her  character  shines  out  again  (V.  iii., 
123-128)  in  her  words,  after  the  dehverance,  to  Per- 
dita :  — 

Tell  me,  mine  own, 
Where  hast  thou  been  preserv'd,  where  liv'd,  how  found 
Thy  father's  court  ?    For  thou  shalt  hear  that  I, 
Knowing  by  Paulina  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being,  have  preserv'd 
Myself  to  see  the  issue. 

And  sixteen  years  to  such  a  woman,  as  grand  and 
unwavering  as  Athene  herself,  are  as  a  little  space, 
as  a  watch  in  the  night.  So  the  absurdities  of  a  plot 
may  become  its  power. 

CyrnbelJne  appears  in  the  Folio  of  1623  in  the  list 
of  tragedies,  while  The  Whiter  s  Tale  is  entered  as  a 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE  I41 

comedy.  Neither  of  these  plays  appears  to  have 
been  printed  earlier.  It  is  probable  that  this  distinc- 
tion, which  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  retain,  was 
ordained  by  Shakespeare  on  the  production  of  the 
plays.  There  seems  at  first  small  reason  to  account 
TJie  Wintc7's  Tale  as  more  comedial,  except    ^,    ,,.. 

'  ^       The  Win- 

for  the  part  of  Autolycus,  and  of  the  satyr  ters  Taie 
dancers  at  the  sheep-shearing  festival.  Some  ^^  '^"""^  ^" 
discussion  of  other  differences  will  be  attempted  later 
We  might  imagine  that  Imogen  was  born  of  nearer 
sympathies  than  the  rival  heroine,  except  for  the  sur- 
passingly tender  close  of  TJic  Winter  s  Tale.  We 
find  manifested  here  the  same  gentleness  and  char- 
ity, as  in  Cymbeline,  toward  the  men  of  the  play, 
who,  not  excepting  Florizel,  are  again  a  sorry  lot. 
The  presence  of  the  second  Hermione,  in  the  person 
of  her  grown-up  daughter,  in  the  fourth  act,  adds 
an  idyllic  charm.  We  could  have  wished  the  treat- 
ment of  Perdita  reserved  for  another  play.  She  is 
perforce  subordinated  to  her  mother,  and  is  with- 
drawn from  our  sight  at  the  close  with  many  unde- 
veloped residues  of  strength  and  goodness. 

We  seem  admitted  to  something  like  a  vision  of 
Shakespeare's  mysterious  and  evasive  personality 
when  he  begins  to  paint  a  Perdita  or  Miranda. 
There  is  a  beautiful  optimism  in  his  spirit  a  vision  of 
and  in  his  working  which  makes  everything  shake- 

speare's 

abroad   seem    sweetened   and    transfigured,  person- 
We  feel  that  he  has  secrets  of  life  which  ^''^y- 
we  might  win  from  him,  and  with  them   make  this 
old  world   young.     Yet  we  are  persuaded  that  the 


142  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

world  is  a  good  place  to  live  in  as  it  is.  We  believe 
more  in  ourselves,  finding  that  we  are  not  so  cheap 
and  paltry  and  insignificant  as  we  have  thought. 
Yet  Shakespeare's  great  women  do  not  strive  or  cry 
or  agonise  after  unattained  or  unattainable  ideals. 
They  do  not  preach  or  patronise,  being  just  as  inno- 
cent of  their  high  estate  and  how  they  came  by  it 
as  we  of  ours.  They  are  suns  severally  of  their  social 
systems,  and  the  men  revolve  about  them  as  satel- 
Htes.  They  are  manifestations,  in  Shakespeare's 
view,  of  the  divine,  by  which  God  administers  him- 
self to  the  world  and  uplifts  man  and  society  at  large 
to  nobler  living.  And  the  divine,  Shakespeare  seems 
to  say,  never  coerces  or  repels,  but  charms,  allures, 
by  its  sovereignty  of  nature. 

We  are  interested,  of  course,  in  comparing  the 
grown-up  daughter,  for  whom  the  plot  has  been 
delayed,  with  Hermione  her  mother.  We  discern  in 
Perdita  be-  Perdita  little  of  her  father's  quality.  She 
mion"  and'  ^^^ks  somewhat  of  her  mother's  strength  ; 
Imogen.  there  is  less  of  the  sublime  and  more  of 
beauty  in  her  nature.  We  may  say  that  she  stands 
midway  between  Hermione  and  Imogen.  The  author 
makes  us  know  her  by  photographing  her  in  a  series 
of  situations,  all  false  ones,  and  as  taxing  and  unfair 
as  the  role  accepted  by  her  mother  when  she  was 
set  the  task  of  detaining  Polyxenes  by  her  husband. 
Perdita  has  grown  up  in  the  home  of  the  shepherd, 
without  suspicion  of  her  rank,  and  has  found  her  life 
large  enough  and  promising  enough,  in  spite  of  its 
distance  from  the  great  world.     Florizel,  son  of  King 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE  IV.  iv  143 

Polyxenes,  chancing  to  follow  his  falcon  across  the 
shepherd's  pastures,  which  have  been  increased  by 
the  use  of  the  foundling's  treasure  to  almost  fabulous 
holdings,  has  seen  her  and  been  drawn  to  woo  her 
by  her  strange  dignity  and  grace.  He  has  repre- 
sented himself,  under  the  name  of  Doricles,  as  the 
owner  of  a  great  sheep-farm  like  her  father's.  He 
is  shown  to  us,  at  the  opening  of  scene  iv,  in  a  shep- 
herd's frock,  put  on  over  his  court  doublet,  while  he 
has  persuaded  Perdita  to  appear  in  costly  robes  and 
finery  brought  from  the  palace.  She  has  deferred 
to  her  lover's  wishes,  but  finds  no  pleasure  in  ele- 
gance that  belies  her  station  and  forces  her  to  out- 
shine the  shepherd  girls  and  swains,  whom  she  is 
waiting  to  receive  as  guests  at  the  sheep-shearing 
festival. 

Thus  is  the  son  of  Polyxenes  characterised  to  us 
at  the  outset  by  his  willingness  to  exploit  his  inamo- 
rata before  her  friends.  For  his  part,  he  affects  a 
costume  much  more  foreign  to  his  character  than 
hers  to  her.  Florizel  is  a  thoroughly  pastoral  person- 
age, as  his  name  betokens,  but  of  the  sort  begotten 
by  poetry  and  not  by  sheepfolds.  He  is  a  very  proper 
young  man,  free  wholly  from  vices  incident  to  courts, 
but  a  little  flighty  and  pedantic  in  some  conceptions  of 
common  things.     *  You  are,'  he  affirms  to  Perdita,  — 

no  shepherdess,  but  Flora 
Peering  in  April's  front.     This  your  sheep-shearing 
Is  as  a  meeting  of  the  petty  gods, 
And  you  the  queen  on't. 

But  more  exactly,  Florizel  is  used,  as  all  the  men  in 


144 


WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 


both  plays  have  been  used,  to  speed  the  treatment 
of  the  heroine  in  hand. 

So  the  author,  wishing  first  to  try  Perdita,  before 
us,  as  mistress  of  the  feast,  makes  her  foster-mother 
to  have  died  since  last  year's  festival.  He  wishes 
us  to  see  what  resources,  what  self-assertion,  his 
Queen's  daughter  can  summon  for  the  part  that  she 
is  called  to  play.  There  is  a  bashful  company  of 
country  folk  to  welcome  and  manage,  and  she  has 
Perdita  no  boldncss  beyond  the  least  of  her  com- 
inakesher    p^nions  to   Stand   her  instead.     There  are 

own  social     t" 

forms.  no  conventionalities  behind  which  she  may 
mask  herself ;  she  must  make  her  own  social  forms 
and  phrases.  The  presence  of  Florizel,  as  her  lover, 
without  the  disposition  to  aid  her  with  her  guests, 
but  with  all  confidence  that  she  will  entertain  them 
"  sprightly,"  does  not  lessen  her  embarrassment. 
Before  she  has  conceived  her  role,  her  father,  him- 
self not  well  knowing  what  should  be  done,  covers 
his  insuflficiency  by  scolding  her  for  her  silence  and 
delay.  To  add  to  the  burdens  of  the  moment,  two 
strangers,  evidently  of  no  mean  station,  are  brought 
to  her  notice  as  demanding  hospitable  attention. 
She  addresses  herself  at  once  to  these,  and,  in  default 
of  better  compliment,  gives  them  flowers  that  suit  well 
with  their  apparent  years.  The  strangers,  who  are 
Polyxenes  and  Camillo,  disguised  as  old  men,  affect 
to  be  displeased  with  the  "  flowers  of  winter "  that 
she  has  given  them.  Perdita  very  prettily  attempts 
to  mend  her  blunder,  and  the  King  leads  her  into 
argument,  that  he  may  sound  her  wit.     She  admits 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE  IV.  iv  I45 

his  logic,  but  refuses  the  personal  conclusion.  He 
has  touched  her  convictions,  and  put  her  in  posses- 
sion of  her  strength.  From  this  moment  the  Her- 
mione  nature  in  her  rules  the  company.  Camillo 
ventures  a  court  compliment,  which  he  perhaps 
assumes  will  upset  her  and  make  her  silly,  but  she 
meets  him  with  a  subordinating  answer.  Turning 
from  the  great  gentlemen,  whom  she  has  welcomed, 
according  to  her  own  interpretation  of  first  principles, 
in  a  wholly  original  and  queenly  way,  she  greets 
(11.  1 12-129)  ^^^  gii"!  friends  from  the  neighbouring 
farmhouses,  half  lost  in  the  exercise  of  her  rare  in- 
sight into  the  world  of  beauty  :  — 

Now,  my  fair'st  friend, 
I  would  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring  that  might 
Become  yoitr  time  of  day;  and  yours ;  and  yours.     O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon  !     Daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty.     Violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes. 
Or  Cytherea's  breath.     Pale  primroses. 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength.     Bold  oxlips,  and 
The  crown  imperial.     Lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one.     O,  these  I  lack. 
To  make  yot/  garlands  of,  and  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  /lim  o'er  and  o'er. 

With  such  refinement  of  spirit,  such  vision,  Per- 
dita  cannot  but  win  Camillo  to  her  side.  Polyxenes 
will  not,  of  course,  admit  the  evidence  of  her  worth, 
finding  her  mistress  of  but  a  herdsman's  home.  To 
him  a  princess  can  be    no  princess    except    as    con- 


146  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

stituted  by  pedigree  and  environment.  But  Shake- 
shake-  speare's  lesson  of  rank  is  plain,  and  is  made 
spearenot    g^.jjj    plainer   later   on   by   satire.      Neither 

ofaristo-  ^  •' 

cratic  sym-  Leontcs  nor  Polyxenes  can  by  any  possibil- 
pathies.  j^y  -^^  royal.  There  are  no  kingly  folk  save 
such  as  have  kingly  minds,  and  live  princely  lives. 
Shakespeare  is  inferred  to  have  been  of  aristocratic 
sympathies.  The  talk  of  the  shepherd  and  the 
clown,  in  the  second  scene  of  the  Fifth  Act,  over 
their  elevation  to  the  Sicilian  peerage,  should  have 
answered  the  question  for  all  time. 

The  author  now  draws  away  the  young  people  of 
the  company,  to  close  the  situation,  that  he  may 
exhibit  the  grace  of  Perdita,  dancing  with  the  court- 
trained  Florizel,  in  contrast  with  the  rustic  move- 
ments of  the  rest.  Autolycus  comes  in  singing,  and 
exposing  the  flashy  contents  of  his  pack,  and  the 
farm  girls  are  all  agog  over  his  gewgaws.  Perdita 
keeps  aloof,  not  because  she  is  wearing  more  sub- 
stantial finery,  but  for  the  reason  that  the  amenities 
and  satisfactions  of  her  living  belong  to  a  different 
plane.  She  has  been  brought  up  with  gross- 
mouthed  kitchen  wenches,  yet  the  pedler  is  fore- 
warned to  sing  no  scurrilous  ballads  in  her  hearing. 
Then  comes  the  moment  when  the  plot  must  turn, 
Perdita  not  and  bear  Perdita  away  from  the  sphere 
by'rtie^'^*^^  where  she  has  shown  her  strength  so  well. 
King.  In    Polyxenes   the    author   has    the   forces 

ready.  The  King  has  been  made  weak  enough  to 
lose  his  temper  over  the  proposed  precontract,  and 
fling  out,  leaving  nothing  but  commands  between  the 


THE   WINTER'S   TALE   IV.  iv  147 

lovers  and  their  will.  Perdita  is  also  to  be  tried  by 
his  threats  to  efface  her  beauty  and  put  her  to  death 
by  torture.  She  realises  the  position,  in  relation  to 
the  kingdom  and  the  succession,  into  which  she  has 
been  unwittingly  drawn.  But  she  will  not  be  intimi- 
dated by  a  king  who  will  so  abuse  his  power.  The 
charge  that  she  has  bewitched  the  prince,  knowing 
fully  who  he  was,  she  (11.  451-456)  ignores  com- 
pletely. 

Even  here  undone. 
I  was  not  much  afeared.     For  once  or  twice 
I  was  about  to  speak  and  tell  him  plainly 
The  selfsame  sun  that  shines  upon  his  court 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  all  alike. 

She  looks  timidly  at  Florizel,  who  seemingly  in  hesi- 
tation for  the  moment  makes  no  effort  to  reassure 
her,  and  begs  him  to  be  gone.  There  are  no  words 
of  reproach  for  the  disappointment  he  has  caused ; 
he  must  take  care  of  his  prospects  at  any  cost  to  her. 
Her  shepherd  father  denounces  her,  echoing  the 
King's  charges,  as  the  author  of  the  doom  he  must 
quickly  meet.  But  she  shows  no  indignation  or  im- 
patience, or  indeed  sorrow;  for  she  seems  to  have 
faith,  like  her  mother's,  that  injustice  cannot  prevail. 
When  no  course  is  open  but  flight  with  her  lover, 
which  Camillo's  disloyalty  to  his  friend  makes  prac- 
ticable, she  does  not  hesitate  from  fear  of  Florizel's 
future  or  her  own.  She  seems  governed,  for  her 
part,  by  some  indeterminate  consciousness  of  her  right 
to  be  a  queen.  And  her  lover's  caprice  of  having 
her  decked  out  in  the  robes  of  a  court  lady  prepares 


148  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

her  for  fitting  entry  to  her  father's  presence  and 
admiration. 

The  part  of  Perdita  as  a  second  heroine  is  finished 
here.  When  Hermione  is  given  back  to  us,  there 
Perdita's  ^lust  be  no  rivalry,  not  even  the  most  dis- 
kneeiing  to  tant,  for  our  attention.  We  could  have 
ermotier,  gygggg^j^  however,  that  Shakespeare  would 
not  fail  to  bring  the  mother  and  her  long-lost  daugh- 
ter together,  before  us,  in  some  artistic  situation  that 
would  be  exalting  to  them  both.  It  is  an  entrancing 
moment  when  this  country-bred  maiden,  who  has  never 
seen  art  collections  before,  or  shared  the  company 
of  great  lords  and  ladies,  kneels  before  Hermione 
in  Paulina's  resplendent  chapel.  What  influences 
draw  her  to  this  homage  the  author  does  not  reveal. 
But  he  has  made  us  sure  that  she  could  not  have  ren- 
dered such  tribute  to  a  painted  statue,  and  that  she 
could  not  have  withheld  it  in  the  real  presence  of 
the  Queen  who  had  borne  the  burdens  of  calumny, 
imprisonment,  and  seclusion  so  grandly  for  her  sake. 

But  we  cannot  pretend  to  canvass  the  essential 
meanings  of  TJie  Winter  s  Tale.  We  have  gone  far 
enough  to  descry  its  art,  and  to  identify  of  what  sort 
were  the  forces  in  the  mind  that  wrought  it.  A 
proper  realisation  of  its  art  expedients  and  elements 
and  its  deeper  lessons  must  be  left  to  the  aspiring 
reader  to  accomplish  for  himself.  As  has  been  ob- 
served, it  is  peculiarly  his  right,  in  the  search  for 
such  knowledge  and  mastery,  to  be  left  alone.  The 
Outlines  in  the  Appendix  seem  all  that  may  be 
offered,  without  impertinence,  for  his  aid. 


IV 

ROMEO  AND  JULIET 

It  has  long  been  recognised  that  a  man's  spiritual 

stature  is  registered  in  his  fellowship  with  the  True, 

and  in  his  reverence  for  the  noblest  examples  what 

of  his  mother's  sex.     We  have  seen  what  Shake- 
speare was 
Shakespeare  was  in  these  respects  when  he  in  younger 

had  reached  the  age  of  forty-five  years  and  authorship. 
upwards.  We  are  anxious  to  know  of  what  sort  he 
was  when  he  began  his  literary  and  dramatic  career, 
and  how  far  he  was  then  capable  of  controlling  his 
reader's  sympathies  by  literary  art.  We  unfortu- 
nately lack  evidence  of  the  kind  required  touching  an 
age  so  early.  The  first  play  that  may  be  profitably 
examined  is  the  Romeo  and  Juliet,  which  is  believed 
to  have  been  completed  considerably  before  his 
thirtieth  year. 

Shakespeare  borrowed  the  characters  and  outline 
of   this   tragedy,  as   is  well    known,   from    Brooke's 
Romeiis  and  Juliet ;  but  his  indebtedness  to  Shake- 
this  and  its  originals  is  much  less  than  is  ^ebuo^ 
usually  supposed.     Brooke's  narrative,  read  Brooke. 
in  the  light  of   Shakespeare's  product,  is  raw  and 
colourless,    with    little    characterisation,    and   almost 
no  genuine  interpretation  of  Hfe.     It  is  one  thing  to 
take  an  incident  from  bare  annals,  and  expand  it,  in 

149 


150  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

flowing  Alexandrines,  into  literary  language.  It  is 
a  very  different  thing  to  supply  omitted  elements, 
distribute  and  differentiate  the  characters,  and  inau- 
gurate the  whole  as  an  integral  exhibit  of  pulsing, 
energised  humanity.  The  man  who  supplies  the  life 
could  probably  have  devised  the  incidents,  the  plot, 
had  he  so  willed ;  for  the  greater  in  these  matters 
certainly  includes  the  less.  Moreover,  Brooke  seems 
to  have  had  small  acquaintance  with  the  people 
among  whom  his  tale  is  laid ;  he  is  blunderingly 
innocent  of  the  customs,  folk-characteristics,  the 
exquisite  susceptibilities,  the  enthusiasms,  and  the 
dreamy  fervour  which  are  of  the  essence  of  the  history 
he  has  to  tell.  Shakespeare  lavishes  strange  lore  of 
this  sort,  we  know  not  whence,  on  all  his  Italian 
plays,  conspicuously  Othello  and  The  Merchant  of 
Venice,  besides  the  present  one,  and  everywhere 
exalts  the  idealism  and  refinement  of  that  race,  with 
its  arts  and  accomplishments  of  social  culture,  as  the 
noblest  and  fullest  yet  attained.  It  was  materials 
and  elements  of  this  kind,  which,  added  to  Brooke, 
have  made  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  possible. 

Our  purpose  will  not  permit  us  to  follow  the  play 
further  than  the  portraiture  of  Juliet,  as  reached  at 
The  artistic  the  plighting  of  her  troth  to  Romeo.  The 
tiTe  stTeet°  pi^ce  opeus  with  a  brutal  sword  fight  be- 
fray.  tweeu  the  bravi,   or  hired  ruffians,   of  the 

rival  houses  of  Capulet  and  Montague.  Shake- 
speare's audiences  were  without  knowledge  of  the 
truculence  and  persistency  of  old-time  Italian  feuds, 
or  of  the  social  and  municipal  conditions  that  made 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET   I.  i  151 

them  possible.  So  he  details  the  steps  by  which  one 
of  the  inevitable  combats  is  evolved.  The  street  is 
roused,  citizens  turn  out  at  a  moment's  warning,  with 
clubs,  to  despatch  the  fighters,  and  the  Prince,  per- 
haps not  unexpectant  of  such  trouble,  is  quickly  upon 
the  scene.  All  this  is  illuminating  as  to  the  state  of 
affairs  in  Verona,  and  in  special  as  to  the  rankhng  and 
truceless  enmity  that  divides  the  households  of  the 
title  characters,  and  their  respective  social  followings. 
Benvolio,  Romeo's  friend,  is  on  hand  to  help  part 
the  swordsmen.  Tybalt,  Juliet's  cousin,  is  of  no  such 
temper,  and  improves  the  opportunity  to  have  at  one 
of  the  opposing  faction.  Romeo  might  have  been  in 
the  fray,  had  he  been  given  to  knight-errantry  of 
Tybalt's  sort.  But  he  has  no  wish  to  fight  for  fight- 
ing's sake,  being  of  gentler  instincts  and  perhaps 
finer  breeding.  For  the  Montagues  seem  such  men- 
tal stuff  as  a  Renaissance  is  made  of,  while  the  stock 
of  the  Capulets  is  of  a  somewhat  harsher  fibre.  At 
any  rate,  Romeo  is  of  the  choicest  blood  of  Italy, 
and  gives  his  days  and  nights  to  tastes  and  associates 
that  even  Capulet  gossip  cannot  condemn.  But  he 
has  of  late  shunned  his  friends,  penned  himself 
up  from  daylight,  and  justified  the  suspicion  that  he 
may  be  ailing  in  his  wits.  His  malady  is,  however, 
nothing  but  what  is  incident  to  spirits  as  rare  as  his, 
and  shows  itself  at  worst  but  in  vigils  and  Romeo  in 
sonnet-making;  for  in  his  brain  Italian  long-  i°s^deaisof 
ings  have  begun  to  stir.  A  beautiful  virgin  love. 
spirit,  worshipful  of  womanhood,  he  has  loitered 
along  the  paths  of  fancy,  in  love  with  the  possibili- 


152  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

ties  of  love  rather  than  with  any  concrete  and  true 
evincement  of  its  power.  He  has  seen  Rosahne,  and 
read  his  ideals  into 'her  face  and  mind.  But  they  are 
not  there,  or  he  would  pursue  her,  and  woo  her,  and 
essay  to  melt  her  indifference  after  a  more  typic 
ItaHan  fashion. 

A  victim  of  ennui,  unconsciously  waiting  for  the 
fulfilment  of  conditions  under  which  his  passion  shall 
blaze  out,  Romeo  happens  upon  his  opportunity. 
Capulet,  a  hale  and  fascinating  gentleman,  whose  rich 
ancestors  have  made  life  for  him  an  unbroken  leisure, 
sends  out  a  servant  with  invitations.  He  has  neglected 
to  select  one  who  can  read  the  names  ;  and  Romeo 
chances  to  be  the  first  pedestrian  of  that  probable  ac- 
compUshment  that  is  encountered  upon  the  way.  Had 
Romeo  not  been  considerate  and  kindly,  the  true  gen- 
tleman that  we  know,  the  events  of  the  play  might 
have  been  much  hindered  ;  he  would  have  answered 
the  fellow  with  Tybalt  snappishness,  and  sent  him 
farther.  Romeo  treats  him  civilly,  reads  his  hst  for 
him,  and  gains  knowledge  of  the  gathering  at  Capu- 
let's  house,  where,  if  he  is  minded  to  use  the  liberty 
of  a  mask,  he  may  look  once  more  on  Rosaline. 

The  next  scene  paints  for  us  the  first  picture  of 
Juliet.  Her  mother  is  a  woman  of  half  her  husband's 
Lady  Cap-  years,  shallow,  conventional,  spiritually  un- 
uiet  in         developed.    She  does  not  seem  to  know  very 

some  awe  ,,       ,  .        ,  ,  ,  1111 

of  her  well  this  daughter  whom  she  has  let  the 
daughter,  nurse  bring  up  in  her  household,  and  mani- 
festly stands  somewhat  in  awe  of  her  sober,  demure, 
and  steadfast  disposition.     Paris  has  proposed  himself 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET   I.  iii  1 53 

as  a  suitor.  Juliet  must  be  told ;  and  the  mother 
approaches  the  task  of  conferring  with  her  fourteen- 
year  old  daughter  upon  the  topic  of  the  affections 
with  something  like  embarrassment.  Brooke  makes 
Juliet's  age  to  have  been  sixteen ;  Paynter's  version 
of  the  same  story,  which  Shakespeare  must  have  seen, 
presents  her  as  two  years  older.  Shakespeare  cor- 
rects both  the  one  and  the  other  English,  or  Northern, 
numeral,  according  to  physiological  verities,  by  'sub- 
stituting the  proper  Italian  one.  The  heroine  at  least 
shall  be  fancy  free,  and  unwakened  yet  to  the  signifi- 
cance of  love. 

The  art  of  portraying  character  consists  mainly  in 
making  the  given  subject  do  or  say  such  things  as  are 
potential  and  illuminating  concerning  the  rj.,  ^  , 
complete  and  habitual  personality.  Thus,  character 
Tybalt's  thrust  at  Benvolio,  in  the  first  scene,  '"^"''"s:- 
makes  us  understand  that  ruffian  thoroughly  for  the 
residue  of  the  play.  It  is  possible  to  select  vitally 
symptomatic  things,  which  shall  put  the  reader  into 
potential  acquaintanceship  with  the  past  and  the  fu- 
ture of  the  character  considered.  Lady  Capulet  is  not 
made  here  to  seek  her  daughter  out,  to  talk  love-mat- 
ters, in  the  confidences  of  a  mother's  closet ;  though 
an  Hermione  would  have  communed  with  a  Perdita  in 
that  way.  This  woman  sends  the  nurse  to  call  her 
daughter  to  her. 

The  nurse,  again,  is  characterised  to  us  vividly  by 
the  words  which  make  up  the  first  line  she  utters.  It 
besides  reveals  to  us  in  a  flash  that  she  is  an  Italian, 
and  not  an  English  serving-woman.     Called  into  the 


154  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

home  as  nurse  for  the  nonce  of  this  JuHet,  she  has 
stayed  on,  filling  the  mother's  place,  and  administer- 
ing moral  nurture.  Shakespeare  needs  to  make  us 
know,  at  the  outset,  among  what  influences  and  sur- 
roundings this  flower  of  purity  has  grown. 

Juliet,  in  turn,  is  made  to  answer  what  shall  be 
imaginatively  suggestive  of  her  nature :  '  Madam,  I 
luiiefs  ^"^  here.  What  is  your  will  ? '  No  great 
strength  of  foudness  or  sympathy  exists  between  mother 
c  aracer.  ^^^  daughter,  and  it  is  not  the  daughter's 
fault.  There  is  quantitatively  more  character  al- 
ready, in  the  daughter,  more  seriousness  and  strength, 
than  in  the  make-up  of  the  mother.  Lady  Capulet 
sends  the  nurse  away,  but,  quickly  realising  that  the 
conversation  will  be  strained,  calls  her  back  to  help 
fill  up  the  silences.  The  nurse,  for  her  part,  discloses 
immediately,  by  her  appropriation  of  the  conversa- 
tion, and  spinning  out  unimportant  details,  in  Dame 
Quickly  fashion,  how  she  has  magnified  her  offices 
and  enlarged  her  sphere.  Some  characterisation  of 
Juliet  is  accomphshed  also  through  the  nurse's  talk. 
By  the  accident  of  her  reference  to  Juliet's  maturity. 
Lady  Capulet  finds  her  clue.  '  Tell  me,  daughter 
Juliet,  how  stands  your  disposition  to  be  married .-' ' 
Juliet's  reply,  as  we  might  have  guessed,  indicates  a 
mind  not  yet  confident  or  conscious  of  charms,  not 
like  Romeo's  in  love  with  love,  withal  self-poised, 
replete  with  the  seriousnesses  of  living  that  come,  all 
the  world  over,  to  demure  maiden  minds.  There  is, 
besides,  we  may  suspect,  something  of  the  reticence  or 
indeed  unfrankness  that,  in  matters  of  the  affections, 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET   I.  iii  155 

seems  to  thrive  equally  under  Southern  as  under  North- 
ern suns. 

Naturally  enough,  the  nurse,  with  her  doubtful 
domestic  history,  applauds  Juliet's  notion  of  the 
'  honour  *  of  being  married.  The  attempt  of  the 
mother  to  recommend  to  her  daughter  the  idea,  on 
general  grounds,  of  having  a  husband,  is  pitiable. 
It  is  certain  that  Juliet  has  given  her  thus  far  no 
anxiety  about  lovers.  And  then  her  absurd  praise 
of  Paris,  — 

Verona's  summer  hath  not  such  a  flower, — 

is  of  a  kind  that  neither  Paris  nor  any  sort  of  virile 
wooer  would  have  held  it  flattery  to  hear,  and  is 
scarcely  matronly  or  motherly.  Juliet  remains  silent 
while  her  mother  and  the  nurse  try  to  coax  her  into 
some  degree  of  recognition  of  Paris's  eligibility.  Her 
impressions  of  Paris  are  no  doubt  definite  enough,  and 
it  is  perhaps  not  easy  to  say,  as  she  does  say  in  effect, 
that  she  will  give  him  the  best  chance  she  can.  Of 
one  thing  she  is  sure,  —  she  will  in  no  wise  allow  her- 
self to  be  attracted  further,  after  the  manner  of  incon- 
siderate and  undutiful  daughters,  than  her  mother 
vouchsafes  consent.  Juliet  thinks  this  altogether  a 
safe  promise,  supposing  Paris  alone  in  question.  But 
she  will  break  it  beautifully  all  the  same,  and  with 
about  as  much  regret  and  recklessness  as  if  to  elude 
a  mother's  vigilance  were  her  chief  employment. 
There  is  no  truer  maid  in  Italy,  though  she  is  not  an 
Imogen.  And  yet,  after  Cymbeline  yielded  to  the 
new  Queen's  will,  did  not  Imogen  deceive  ? 


156  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

Romeo  and  Benvolio,  this  time  with  several  of  their 
friends,  flanked  by  torch-bearers  and  pages,  appear 
The  ed  ^g^-in  in  the  following  or  fourth  scene.  We 
ofaMer-  wonder  at  the  length  of  the  dialogue,  which 
'^^"°'  seems  at  first  but  to  delay  the  action.     We 

then  note  that  in  the  stage  direction,  Enter  Romeo, 
Mcrcutio,  and  Benvolio,  there  is  a  nearer  friend  at 
Romeo's  side.  The  point  of  it  all,  or  at  least  the  main 
one,  is  the  brilUant  and  voluble  conversation  of  Mer- 
cutio.  Our  hero  has  seemed  unresponsive,  heavy, 
untypical.  Mercutio  makes  good  what  we  miss  in 
him,  and  fascinates  us  by  his  imagination. 

The  little  group  of  young  Italian  gentlemen  sets 
out,  to  the  strokes  of  the  drum,  for  the  palace  of 
Juliet's  father.  No  such  bright  and  fashionable  com- 
pany, we  may  be  sure,  is  abroad  to-night  on  Verona 
streets.  We  are  taken  in  advance  of  their  arrival,  by 
the  opening  of  scene  v,  to  the  house  of  the  Capulets. 
The  servants  hurry  about,  and  the  musicians  are  in 
waiting,  in  the  great  hall.  This  introduction  to  the 
home,  while  the  host  delays,  will  enable  us  to  give 
our  attention  wholly  to  the  guests,  when  they  shall 
appear.  Capulet  soon  brusquely  enters,  with  Juliet 
as  acting  hostess,  and  puts  the  company  at  once  in 
perfect  humour.  His  Italian  volubility,  and  gestures, 
and  repetitions,  — 

'Tis  gone,  'tis  gone,  'tis  gone,  — 

individualise  him  vividly. 

Romeo  has  seen  JuHet,  and  her  staid  brow  and  sub- 
dued enjoyment  of  the  scene  are  fascinating  to  his 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET   I.  v  1 57 

melancholic  mood.  She  is  beautiful,  and  she  is  grave  ; 
the  high  seriousness  and  imaginative  refinement  of 
her  nature  are  rarely  blended.  Here  is  his  affinity, 
his  ideal ;  his  affection  changes  from  an  inner  vision 
to  a  concrete,  evinced  reaUty.  In  the  flickering,  incon- 
stant Hght  of  the  torches  he  traces  out  each  feature, 
and  finds  the  divine  idea  of  beauty  on  which  she  is 
planned  complete.  She  is  dancing  with  some  swain, 
—  not  Paris,  who  is  not  mentioned,  and  seems  to 
have  kept  bashfully  aloof,  and  Romeo  waits  till  the 
measure  shall  be  finished.  He  has  sought  no  part- 
ner, and,  being  a  torch-holder,  is  in  proximity  to  no 
one  who  might  tell  him  who  she  is.  The  serving- 
man,  of  whom  he  makes  inquiry,  naturally  does  not 
know  of  whose  family  she  is ;  and  Romeo  gives  way 
to  his  interpretative  and  realising  thoughts  :  — 

O,  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn  bright ! 
Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night      % 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiope's  ear  ; 
Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear ! 
So  shows  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows. 
As  yonder  lady  o'er  her  fellows  shows. 
The  measure  done,  I'll  watch  her  place  of  stand, 
And,  touching  hers,  make  blessed  my  rude  hand. 
Did  my  heart  love  till  now?     Forswear  it,  sight ! 
For  1  ne'er  saw  beauty  till  this  night. 

His  domino  conceals  his  face ;  but  his  voice,  which 
is  deep  and  musical,  and  his  figure,  mark  him  to 
Tybalt  as  of  the  Montagues.  The  old  hate  blazes 
out.  Tybalt  would  have  set  upon  him,  and  despatched 
him  then  and  there,  defenceless  and  unsuspecting, 
but  for  the  veto  of  his  uncle.     Thus  the  motive  for 


158  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

Tybalt's  later  challenge  to  Romeo,  and  for  the  insult 
that  Mercutio  will  decline  to  tolerate,  is  introduced. 

While  Capulet  quiets  Tybalt,  with  difficulty  keep- 
ing his  own  rage  from  blazing  out  in  the  face  of  his 
guests,  the  music  has  stopped,  and  Romeo,  giving 
up  his  torch,  bends  his  steps  through  the  press  to 
Juliet's  side.  He  is  of  fine  presence  and  stature, 
gracefully  proportioned,  and  the  deep  seriousness 
of  his  brow  tells  of  high  thoughts  and  infinite  devo- 
tion. Juliet  reads  him  instantly,  and  gains  the  vision 
of  his  ideals  and  worth.  Here  is  the  knight  who, 
to  her,  is  tender  and  strong,  and  pure  and  true.  It 
makes  little  difference  what  such  souls  who  have 
seen  each  other  say.  Words  are  hieroglyphics  that 
the  vulgar,  who  overhear,  cannot  divine.  Romeo 
takes  her  by  the  hand.  All  his  dreaminess,  and  far- 
off,  impracticable  worship  are  gone  from  his  mind. 
He  is  at  his  best  of  cleverness  and  grace :  — 

If  I  profane  with  my  unworthiest  hand 

This  holy  shrine,  the  gentle  fine  is  this : 

My  lips,  two  blushing  pilgrims,  ready  stand 

To  smooth  that  rough  touch  with  a  tender  kiss. 

Good  pilgrim,  you  do  wrong  your  hand  too  much. 
Which  mannerly  devotion  shows  in  this  ; 
For  saints  have  hands  that  pilgrim's  hands  do  touch. 
And  palm  to  palm  is  holy  palmers'  kiss. 

Have  not  saints  lips,  and  holy  palmers  too? 

Ay,  pilgrim,  lips  that  they  must  use  in  prayer. 

O,  then,  dear  saint,  let  lips  do  what  hands  do : 
They  pray.     Grant  thou,  lest  faith  turn  to  despair. 

Saints  do  not  move,  though  grant  for  prayers'  sake. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET   I.  v  1 59 

This  is  not  very  skilful,  this  hint  that  she  shall 
make  no  stir,  whatever  happens.  But  Juliet  is  young, 
and  innocent  of  all  less  open  wiles  that  expert  and 
practised  charmers  know.  Grant  White  believes  that 
Juliet  here  has  been  contriving  to  be  drawn  into  a 
corner,  that  there  may  be  no  escape  from  Romeo's 
conclusion.  This  heavy-handed  comment  seems  of 
value,  but  only  in  support  of  the  contrary  idea.  White 
has  in  mind  Juliets  of  another  sort,  and  there  are 
such,  who  would  proceed,  after  the  fashion  that  he 
affirms,  in  the  case  of  any  Romeo,  and  forget  him  in 
half  an  hour.  It  is  one  thing  to  be  in  love  with  a 
whole  sex,  but  quite  another  to  be  in  love  with  a 
single  example  of  it ;  and  Juliet  is  the  last  woman  in 
the  world  to  think,  mischievously,  of  trying  to  make 
a  conquest.  Lady  Capulet  at  this  point  calls  Juliet 
away,  and  Romeo,  who  has  not  yet  removed  his 
mask,  is  not  recognised  by  her.  Juliet,  who  has  not 
fully  seen  his  face,  has  heard  his  voice,  and  will  know 
her  lover  by  that,  though  she  were  separated  from 
him  for  half  a  lifetime. 

Of  course  much  in  this  meeting  of  the  lovers  is 
left  to  the  acting.  If  the  stage  Romeo  and  Juliet 
feel  and  look  the  characters  that  they  represent,  there 
is  not  much  difficulty  in  playing  the  respective  parts. 
No  exterior  grace  or  archness  will  make  up  for  the 
profound  psychology  on  which  Shakespeare  founds 
both  title  characters.  Theirs  is  no  common  physical 
attraction,  each  to  other.  When  Juliet  is  released 
from  the  social  task  imposed  by  her  mother,  the 
young  men  have  taken  leave  of  their  host  and  are 


l6o  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

departing.  Aided  by  something  of  the  reserve  appar- 
ent in  the  interview  with  her  mother  and  the  nurse, 
she  now  inquires  out  who  is  the  guest  that  charms 
her.  She  has  faith  in  her  vision  of  his  sincerity,  and 
feels  in  her  heart  that  he  is  not  married.  But  she  is 
of  Gothic  temperament,  and  must  look  on  the  dark 
side  first.  If  it  prove  that  he  is  not  for  her,  if  he 
have  a  wife  already,  then  will  love  be  shut  out  for- 
ever from  her  life,  and  life  itself  will  not  be  long, 
Romeo  and  his  companions  have  probably,  on  with- 
drawing, raised  their  masks,  and  the  identity  of  each 
is  known.  So  the  nurse  brings  knowledge  that  he  is 
not  married,  but  that  he  is  a  Montague.  The  result 
is  but  a  change  in  Juliet's  seriousness. 

My  only  love  sprung  from  my  only  hate  ! 
Too  early  seen  unknown,  and  known  too  late  ! 
Prodigious  birth  of  love  it  is  to  me, 
That  I  must  love  a  loathed  enemy. 

Juliet  has  never  loved  before ;  her  life,  like  a 
George  Eliot's,  or  Maggie  Tulliver's,  has  been  too 
sombre  and  severe.  That  we  can  understand.  But 
why  has  she  hated.''  That  is  the  Italian  something 
that  we  cannot  well  understand.  Every  Capulet 
hates  all  the  Montagues,  with  perfect  Southron 
hatred,  and  each  child,  from  inherited  enmity  and 
from  nurture,  hates  with  the  full  hatred  of  its  father. 
To  administer  the  element  of  time,  most  important 
here,  Shakespeare  has  the  Chorus  of  the  Earlier 
Drama  come  out  and  occupy  the  stage.  The  author 
must  bring  the  lovers  to  their  understanding  within 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET  l6l 

the  compass  of  a  hundred  and  sixty  lines,  a  feat 
scarcely  achieved  elsewhere,  and  must  make  to  him- 
self friends  of  all  the  accessories  and  expedients  of 
stage  tradition.  To  have  late  events  rehearsed,  and 
new  ones  interpreted  beforehand,  by  a  stage  personi- 
fication, interposes  a  signal  experience  between  our 
first  seeing  the  lovers  and  their  next  appearance,  and 
psychologically  retards  the  resumption  of  the  plot. 
Shakespeare  uses  a  similar  expedient,  to  the  same 
effect,  when  he  makes  Old  Father  Time  come  in, 
with  scythe  and  hourglass,  at  the  opening  of  Act  IV 
in  The  Winter  s  Tale,  and  explain  the  omission  of 
sixteen  years.  The  effect  is  also,  of  course,  in  some 
measure  to  assist  credulity. 

Anglo-Saxon  prejudices  are  apt  to  be  stirred  at  the 
notion  of  love  at  first  sight.     It  seems  based  on  noth- 
ing but  the  most  superficial  attractions,  and  xhe  itai- 
holds  in  itself  the  promise  of  little  but  disil-  '^"^ "«'  ^ 

1       •  1  1.  X  .      •  fickle,  in- 

lusion  and  repentance.  Moreover,  it  is  a  constant 
common  assumption  that  the  Italian  nature  ■■^'^^• 
is  fickle  and  shallow,  and  that  the  loves  of  a  JuHet 
and  Romeo,  if  uninterrupted,  could  have  proved  but 
fleeting,  and  owe  their  intensity  to  nothing  but  the 
suddenness  of  passion.  There  is  probably  no  remedy 
for  such  ignorance  and  race  conceit  but  travel  and 
sojourn  among  the  misjudged  people.  It  does  not 
help  much  to  affirm  abstractly  that  the  Italian  is  at 
his  best  not  an  inconstant  creature,  falling  in  love,  — 
as  we  are  reminded  Romeo  did,  —  with  every  pretty 
face,  but  quite  the  contrary.  Love  is  founded  upon 
imaginative  recognition  and  conception  of  high  quali- 


1 62  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

ties  of  worth  and  nobleness.  It  is  not  essential  that 
a  Romeo's  eye  dwell  upon  the  signs  of  such  noble- 
ness and  worth  continuously,  for  weeks  and  months, 
before  discerning  what  they  stand  for,  and  respond- 
ing to  their  challenge.  Such  might  be  the  course  of 
love,  were  the  signs  doubtful,  or  the  beauty  and 
worth  that  they  stand  for  partial,  alloyed  with  baser 
elements.  But  to  Romeo  the  soul  of  Juliet  Ues  open 
at  first  view.  Her  clear  seeing  of  spiritual  verities, 
and  consequent  earnestness  and  frank  sincerity,  her 
wifely  solicitudes  and  sweet  devotion,  her  purity  and 
self-subordination,  are  open  secrets,  and  would  have 
been  as  patent,  and  perhaps  as  potent,  had  they  been 
looked  on  by  Anglo-Saxon  eyes.  Typically  the 
Italian  Romeo  is  more  acute  and  intense  of  vision 
than  his  Northern  brother;  and  there  are  in  his 
Juliet's  eyes  messages  more  soulful  and  transparent 
than  can  be  read  by  the  light  of  colder  suns.  While 
human  nature  is  human  nature  everywhere  in  kind, 
there  are  beautiful  and  wonderful  differences  of  de- 
gree. On  the  basis  of  these  the  author  has  con- 
structed the  present  play. 

Till  the  sight  of  Juliet,  Romeo  spent  his  days  in 
sighing,  and  his  nights  in  feverish  and  empty  vigil. 
Rosahne  was  a  symbol  of  his  ideal  toward  which  he 
was  drawn  to  no  personal  approach.  From  Juliet  he 
finds  it  impossible  to  go  away.  His  group  of  mask- 
ers has  reduced  itself,  before  reaching  the  lane  or 
alley  beside  the  great  Capulet  enclosure,  to  Mercutio 
and  BenvoUo ;  and  from  these  advancing  with  the 
torch-bearers,  whom   he   has   now  sent  forward,  he 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET  II.  i  163 

slips  aside  into  the  alley.  Before  his  friends  have 
fairly  missed  him  from  sight,  he  has  climbed  the  wall 
and  leaped  within.  In  the  first  situation,  our  hero 
was  subordinated  to  Benvolio,  who  discoursed  with 
concern  of  his  late  behaviour.  On  the  advent  of 
Mercutio,  Romeo  seemed  infelicitous  and  heavy  in 
comparison.  But  now,  as  the  one  and  the  other  call 
after  Romeo  vainly  in  the  dark,  we  find  our  interest 
and  sympathies  transferred.  Benvolio  is  staunch, 
well-meaning,  clean  of  lips  and  life,  altogether  such  a 
companion  as  a  Romeo  would  attract  and  attach  in 
friendship  to  himself.  Mercutio  is  liveHer,  but  less 
substantial,  and  perhaps  of  less  prestige  socially,  and 
seems  rather  to  have  selected  himself  than  to  have 
been  selected,  in  Romeo's  following.  When  he  hits 
off  Romeo's  boyish  devotion  to  Rosaline  so  cleverly, 
we  of  course  applaud  :  — 

Romeo  !  humours  !  madman  !  passion  !  lover ! 
Appear  thou  in  the  likeness  of  a  sigh  ! 
Speak  but  one  rhyme,  and  I  am  satisfied. 
Cry  but  '  Ay  me  ! '     Pronounce  but  '  love  '  and  '  dove '; 
Speak  to  my  gossip  Venus  one  fair  word. 
One  nickname  for  her  purblind  son  and  heir. 
Young  Abraham  Cupid,  he  that  shot  so  trim, 
When  King  Cophetua  lov'd  the  beggar  maid.  — 
He  heareth  not,  he  stirreth  not,  he  moveth  not. 
The  ape  is  dead,  and  I  must  conjure  him. 

Yet  the  deliverance  reacts  in  Romeo's  favour.  Mer- 
cutio, we  admit,  is  clever ;  but  he  is  not  lofty-minded. 
He  has  seen  the  world,  and  affects  to  despise  such  an 
attachment  as  Romeo,  he  believes,  is  forming.     We 


1 64  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

prefer  Romeo's  virile  innocence  to  all  Mercutio's 
wayward  wisdom.  The  young  man  who  will  speak 
of  his  friend's  inamorata  lightly,  with  insult  to  her 
womanhood,  has  lost  the  token  of  true  manliness.^ 
We  shall  find  the  equilibrium  between  him  and 
Romeo  still  more  completely  shifted,  and  of  purpose, 
as  the  play  proceeds. 

As  his  friends  withdraw,  Romeo  looks  at  the  win- 
dows along  the  side  of  the  palace,  hoping  to  divine 
what  ones  are  Juliet's.  At  the  instant  she  has  en- 
tered her  chamber,  and  is  lighting  the  tapers,  which 
reveal  her  outline,  and  shining  out  to  him  draw  his 
steps  toward  her.  Immediately  his  romantic  imagi- 
nation is  kindled  to  its  best  strength  of  interpretative 
vision.  What  he  utters  is  hardly  in  the  dialect  of  an 
English  lover,  but  may  be  taken  as  indicative  of  the 
Italian  energy  and  activity  of  his  mind.  Juliet  has 
just  come  from  the  dismissing  of  the  guests  below, 
with  the  identity  of  Romeo  still  in  her  mind.  Ad- 
vancing from  the  yet  uncooled  air  of  the  chamber  to 
the  open  window,  she  gives  way  to  the  sigh,  till  now 
suppressed,  '  that  her  only  love  should  have  sprung 
from  her  only  hate.'  But  the  tones  of  Romeo's  voice 
yet  ring  in  her  mind,  and  have  made  her  suspect  it 
possible  to  hate  unjustly.  Romeo  of  course  cannot 
guess  what  is  in  her  thoughts,  but  his  fancy  gets  new 
quickening,  as  is  seen  in  the  images  that  now  shape 
themselves  to  his  lips  :  — 

1  In  studies  of  Shakespeare's  art,  only  complete  and  unexpurgated 
texts  should  be  used.  Points  like  the  present  one  will  otherwise  be 
missed. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET   II.  il  165 

O  speak  again,  bright  angel !     For  thou  art 
As  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white-upturned  wondering  eyes 
*  Of  mortals  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him, 

When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing  clouds 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air. 

There  is  a  little  silence,  and  then  is  heard,  as  said 
musingly,  and  in  confidence  to  herself :  — 

O  Romeo,  Rotfieo,  whei-efore  art  thou  Romeo  ? 
Deny  thy  father,  and  refuse  thy  name; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love, 
And  ril  no  longer  be  a  Capulet. 

Juliet  is  dropping  the  plummet  deep  down  in  her 
soul,  and  is  finding  strange  soundings  there.  She 
feels  that  she  can  give  up  her  dear  home,  with  all  its 
elegance  and  happy  memories,  she  can  go  away  from 
her  father  and  her  friends,  and  even  renounce  the 
proud  name  of  Capulet,  all  because  of  an  uncontrol- 
lable passion  to  yield  and  merge  herself  in  sacrifice 
and  devotion  to  this  prince,  this  deity  who  has  so 
suddenly  revealed  himself  to  her.  The  Juliet  of  a 
higher  latitude  makes  these  discoveries  more  slowly, 
and  feels  it  well  to  enter  into  contention,  get  comfort 
from  the  losing  battle  against  their  power.  Juliet 
discerns  the  will  of  nature,  and  allies  herself  with  it 
sweetly.  But  Romeo,  —  what  can  Romeo  know  of 
the  forces  that  have  wrought  the  change  .-'  Will  he 
believe  indeed  that  there  has  been  a  change  .-'  Will 
he  think  her  shallow,  conceive  her  capable  of  throw- 
ing herself  into  the  arms  of  any  other  man  who 
might   address   her  amorously .-'      He   has  read  her 


l66  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

eyes,  the  deep  meanings  of  her  mind,  too  well  for 
that.  He  would  have  wooed  her  timorously  and 
long ;  but  now  what  shall  he  do  ?  Juliet's  self-prob- 
ing and  philosophising  save  him  a  decision :  — 

'Tis  but  thy  name  that  is  my  enemy. 
Thou  art  thyself,  though  not  a  Montague. 
What's  Montague  ?     It  is  nor  hand  nor  foot 
Nor  arm  nor  face  nor  any  other  part 
Belonging  to  a  man.     O,  be  some  other  name! 
What's  in  a  name  ?    That  which  we  call  a  rose 
By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet. 
So  Rotneo  would,  were  he  7iot  Romeo  call'd, 
Retain  that  dear  perfection  which  he  oives 
Without  that  title.  —  Romeo,  doff\.\\y  name, 
And  for  that  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee, 
Take  all  tnyself. 

Juliet,  let  us  remember,  is  not  pondering  why  she 
should  wish  to  give  up  her  maiden  freedom,  and 
belong  to  another  more  than  to  herself,  but  how  it 
should  be  possible  for  her  to  resign  herself  to  one 
of  the  hated  house  of  Montague.  Romeo  is  long 
past  any  trouble  of  that  kind,  for  he  is  a  man,  and 
can  but  vaguely  guess,  in  this  moment  of  intoxica- 
tion, how  tenaciously  Juliet's  feminine  conversatism 
holds  her  to  the  past.  But  he  will  indeed  deny  his 
father,  and  refuse  his  name. 

I  take  thee  at  thy  word. 
Call  me  but  love,  and  I'll  be  new  baptiz'd. 
Henceforth  I  never  will  be  Romeo. 

By  a  name 
I  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  am. 
My  name,  dear  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 
Because  it  is  an  enemy  to  thee. 
Had  I  it  written,  I  would  tear  the  word. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET   II.  ii  167 

The  victory  was  really  won  before  Romeo  spoke. 
Juliet  is  too  practical  to  think  of  Romeo's  involving 
himself  in  any  trouble  with  his  family  on  her  account. 
She  wishes  to  make  all  the  renunciation,  and  is  be- 
ginning to  find  it  a  joy  to  speak  the  once  hated 
names :  — 

Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague  ? 

Romeo  is  filled  with  romantic  ideals,  and  is  gov- 
erned by  them.  Juliet  has  seen  this,  and  loves  him 
for  it.  Juliet's  fancies  do  not  fly  so  high,  as  she  is 
of  a  matter-of-fact  temper  and  constitution ;  and 
Romeo  loves  her  because  her  nature  is  complemental 
to  his  own.  The  real  and  the  ideal  are  seen  strangely 
in  dialogue,  as  the  twain  now  talk.  Juliet  asks  in 
fond  and  wondering  anxiousness,  but  Romeo  answers 
valiantly,  in  the  language  of  the  clouds.  All  her 
utterances  are  wholly  feminine  in  emphasis  and  dic- 
tion, while  his  are  as  truly  masculine.  She  inquires 
first  how  he  came,  and  will  he  tell  really  why  ? 

How  cam'st  thou  thither,  tell  me  ?  and  wherefore  ? 
The  orchard  walls  are  high  and  hard  to  climb, 
And  the  place  death,  considering  who  thou  art, 
If  any  of  my  kinsmeny?«^  thee  here. 

With  love's  light  wings  did  I  o'er-perch  these  walls. 
For  stony  limits  cannot  hold  love  out. 
And  what  love  can  do  that  dares  love  attempt. 
Therefore  thy  kinsmen  are  no  let  to  me. 

If  they  do  see  thee,  they  will  murther  thee. 

Alack,  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye 

Than  twenty  of  their  swords.     Look  thou  but  sweet, 

And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity. 


1 68  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE?  '* 

I  would  not  for  the  world  they  saw  thee  here. 

I  have  night's  cloak  to  hide  me  from  their  eyes. 
And  but  thou  love  me,  let  them  find  me  here. 
My  life  were  belter  ended  by  their  hate. 
Than  death  prorogued,  wanting  of  thy  love. 

Attention  has  many  times  been  called  to  the  puns 
and  other  marks  of  immaturity  in  this  play.  But 
there  are  no  puns  or  rhymings  here.  Was  ever 
English  used  to  more  telling  purpose .'' 

By  whose  direction  found'st  thou  out  this  place? 

By  love,  that  first  did  prompt  me  to  inquire. 

He  lent  me  counsel,  and  I  lent  him  eyes. 

I  am  no  pilot.     Yet  wert  thou  as  far 

As  that  vast  shore  wash'd  with  the  farthest  sea, 

I  would  adventure  forsuch  merchandise. 

While  they  have  been  talking  in  these  strange 
interchanges  of  realism  and  romance,  Juliet's  intui- 
tions have  been  active  with  the  practical  aspects  of 
the  case.  Romeo  would  have  kept  voicing  his  airy 
nothings  till  daylight,  with  never  a  thought  of  the 
Juliet  plans  loss  of  time.  If  they  are  to  belong  to  each 
for  both.  other,  there  must  be  a  plan.  As  Romeo 
seems  in  supreme  content  with  things  as  they  are, 
she  must  act  for  both.  Since  she  has  indicated 
objections  to  his  family,  while  he  has  waived  all 
unpleasant  recollections  of  hers,  it  behooves  her  to 
show  her  generosity  without  delay.  Then,  too,  she 
must  excuse  what  Romeo  has  overheard,  whether 
she  make  it  worse  or  better.  He  will  understand 
her  like  a  god,  and  it  will  be  sweet  to  confess  herself 
to  one  who  is  so  loftily  in  love. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET   II.  ii  169 

Thou  know'sl  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face, 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night. 
Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form,  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke;   but  farewell  compliment! 
Dost  thou  love  me  ?     I  know  thou  wilt  say  ay,  — 
Atid I  ivill  take  thy  wo)-J.     Yet,  if  thou  swear' st. 
Thou  mayst  prove  false.     At  lovers'  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.      O  gentle  Romeo, 
T/'thou  dost  love,  pronounce  \\.  faithfully  ; 
Or,  if  thou  think' st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I'll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 
So  thou  wilt  woo;   but  else,  not  for  the  -world. 

Her  dismay  and  pleading,  when  she  realises  again 
how  much  of  her  maidenly  secret  she  has  betrayed, 
are  Imogen-like  and  rarely  beautiful :  — 

In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond. 
And  therefore  thou  mayst  think  my  haviour  light. 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 

Romeo,  by  instinct,  apphes  to  her  an  equally  formal 
designation,  answering  to  her  "  gentleman,"  — 

Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear. 

He  would  assure  her  of  the  utter  fascination  of  her 
frankness,  and  of  the  eternal  fidelity  of  his  soul  to  a 
faith  so  childlike  and  complete.     But  she  ^, 

>■  1  he  power 

stops  the  words  that  she  would  joy  much  to  of  Juliet's 
hear,  because  they  are  gratuitous  and  spring 
from  too  much  concern.     She  would  have  Romeo  as 
reposeful  as  herself  :  — 

O  swear  not  by  the  moon,  th'  inconstant  moon, 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb. 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 


I/O  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

What  shall  I  swear  by? 

Do  not  swear  at  all; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  self, 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  I'll  believe  thee. 

Such  trust  would  lay  hold  on  all  that  is  sacred  in 
manhood,  and  make  an  unworthy  Romeo  true.  It 
is  not  a  wilful,  reckless  venture,  but  her  tribute  to 
the  nobleness  of  his  mind. 

To  Anglo-Saxon  prudence  the  scene  has  seemed 
precipitate.  Shakespeare  must  conciliate  his  reader 
How  and  remedy  somewhat  the  haste.     His  best 

Shake-         devicc  will  be  to  produce  some  impression 

speare  al-  .  .  ,   .    i    . 

leviatesthe  agam  of  prolonged  time,  as  by  multiplymg 
haste.  ^^Q  reader's  experiences  between  what  may 

be  called  stages  in  the  relations  of  the  lovers.  JuHet's 
sense  of  the  suddenness  of  their  attachment  is  first 
used.  She  thinks  to  withdraw,  though  no  Hne  of 
action  that  shall  bring  them  again  together  seems  yet 
developed  before  her  mind. 

Well,  do  not  swear.     Although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night. 
It  is  too  ras/i,  too  unadvis'd,  too  sudden. 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be 
Ere  one  can  say  it  lightens.     Sweet,  good  night ! 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath. 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 
Good  night,  good  night  !     As  sweet  repose  and  rest 
Come  to  thy  heart  as  that  within  7ny  breast ! 

I  suspect  our  sympathies  are  with  Romeo,  who 
feels  the  incompleteness  of  the  interview  that  he  has 
so  little  helped  to  shape.     He  would  Hke  assurance 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET   11.   ii  171 

that  a  formal  betrothment  has  been  made  before  he 
goes  away.  In  Juliet's  feeling  that  has  been  done 
already.  It  is  such  a  little  thing,  she  must  have 
him  know,  compared  with  the  fathomless  bounty 
that  she  would  have  all  his. 

O,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied? 

What  satisfaction  canst  thou  have  to-night  ? 

The  exchange  of  thy  love's  faithful  vow  for  mine. 

I  gave  thee  viine  before  thou  didst  request  it, 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. 

Wouldst  thou  withdraw  it  ?     For  what  purpose,  love  ? 

But  to  ht  frank,  and  give  it  thee  again. 

And  yet  I  wish  but  for  the  thing  I  have. 

My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 

My  love  as  deep  :  the    more  I  give  to  thee 

The  more  /  have,  for  both  are  infinite. 

I  hear  some  noise  within.     Dear  love,  adieu !  — 

Anon,  good  nurse  !  —  S'weet  Montague,  be  true. 

Stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again. 

To  her  the  name  of  Montague,  as  she  turns  from 
him,  is  no  longer  '  fair',  as  it  had  grown  to  be  a  few 
lines  back  ;  it  is  even  '  sweet.'  The  effect  of  the  re- 
peated good-nights  and  adieus  is  beginning  to  seem 
like  the  registry  of  a  much  longer  wooing.  The  call 
of  the  nurse  is  but  another  expedient  to  give  perspec- 
tive to  their  acquaintanceship.  When  Juliet  juUet's 
returns,  her  mind  is  cleared,  the  vision  of  p'^"- 
their  future  has  been  made  out.  They  must  not  risk 
another  interview  ;  the  least  suspicion  of  their  rela- 
tions would  imprison  them  from  each  other's  sight 


1/2  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

forever.  They  will  wed  secretly,  and  leave  Verona, 
Romeo  shall  say  whither  :  — 

Three  words,  dear  Romeo,  and  good  night  indeed. 

If  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honourable, 

Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-morrow, 

By  one  that  I'll  procure  to  come  to  thee. 

Where  and  what  time  thou  wilt  perform  the  rite  ; 

And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I'll  lay, 

And  follow  thee  my  lord  throughout  the  world. 

All  the  anxiety  that  should  have  been  her  mother's 
comes  to  her.  If  the  price  is  too  great,  if  Romeo 
will  not  make  the  sacrifice,  let  him  advise  her  speed- 
ily. The  nurse  is  made  to  call  again,  and  urgently, 
and  Romeo  withdraws.  Juliet  has  left  nothing  for 
him  to  do  but  make  up  his  mind.  Like  Imogen's 
insistency  with  Pisanio,  after  Posthumus's  letter  call- 
ing her  to  Milford  Haven,  her  woman's  resolution 
carries  all  before  it. 

But  Imogen  left  out  nothing  from  her  plans ;  the 
author  makes  Juliet  forget  to  arrange  with  Romeo  the 
hour.  This  is  added  to  give  them,  in  seeming,  another 
interview.  And  of  course,  in  the  dramatic  action, 
and  the  fresh  glimpse  of  Juhet's  mind,  there  is  great 
gain  besides  to  the  scene.  The  philosophy  of  her 
thought,  — 

Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud ; 
Else  would  I  tear  the  cave  where  Echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than  mine. 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name,  — 

is  un-Anglican,  yet  wholly  such  as  Desdemona  and 
many  another  of  Shakespeare's  Italian  women  might 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET  II.   Ii  173 

compass  by  the  way.  It  is  well  to  be  reminded  of  the 
strength  and  momentum  of  her  intelligence.  She 
sends  her  voice  out  hissingly  after  Romeo,  who  has 
fortunately  retired  but  slowly.  He  presents  himself 
beneath  her,  and  she  speaks  down  to  him  in  a  fresh, 
new,  soulful  salutation,  '  Romeo,'  that  he  cannot  com- 
prehend as  we  do.  That  is  now  the  name  of  names 
that  she  would  not  have  him  refuse.  The  scene 
apparently  finds  here  its  climax.  She  does  not  ask 
him  if  he  has  bethought  himself ;  the  old  faith  has 
really  never  wavered. 

At  what  o'clock  to-morrow 
Shall  I  send  to  thee  ? 

The  question  asked,  and  answered,  Juliet  lingers, 
finding  no  reason  why ;  the  moment  has  come  when 
the  woman  in  her  ordains  that  she  withdraw :  — 

'Tis  almost  morning.     I  would  have  thee  gone, 
And  yet  no  farther  than  a  wanton's  bird, 
Who  lets  it  hop  a  little  from  her  hand. 
Like  a  poor  prisoner  in  his  twisted  gyves, 
And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back  again, 
So  loving-jealous  of  his  liberty. 

I  would  I  were  thy  bird. 

Sweet,  so  would  /. 
Yet  I  should  kill  thee  with  much  cherishing. 
Good  night,  good  night !     Parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow, 
That  I  shall  say  good  night  till  it  be  morrow. 

The  same  objectiveness  is  delectably  present  again, 
in  the  mode  and  substance  of  these  rare  lines.  It 
seems  clear  what  kind  of  imagination  Shakespeare 
postulates  for  his  best  womanhood.      He  would  have 


174  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

feminine  vision,  or  intuition,  that  gift  by  which 
woman  is  chiefly  separate  from  man,  natively  em- 
The  intui-  ployed  in  processes  that  make  for  his  exal- 
tionof  tation  and  advance,  and  not  in  unapplied, 
spe^are's  untcthcrcd  cxercisc.  Shakespeare  knows 
women.  ^|^g  other  type  of  female  imagination,  of 
which  he  has  made  stern  studies  in  Lady  Macbeth  and 
Cleopatra.  The  George  Sands  and  George  Eliots  have 
not  greatly  advanced  the  race,  and,  as  personal  fac- 
tors and  figures,  stand  apart  from  their  sex  at  large. 
Woman  is  to  Shakespeare's  thought  the  interpreter 
of  the  gods  in  things  touching  the  Good  and  the 
True  and  their  increase  upon  the  earth.  Why  are 
purity  and  worth  the  basis  of  man's  love  for  woman.' 
Because  coming  generations  are  to  be  born  thus  by 
consecutive,  progressive  selection  of  the  Beautiful 
and  the  True,  which  are  but  manifestations  and 
modes  of  God.  So  the  race  evolves  toward  these 
excellencies,  and  is  compassing  them  as  rapidly  at 
this  moment,  in  degree,  as  ever  in  its  history.  The 
Kingdom  of  God  comes  not  except  by  influence. 
Rightness  and  Beauty  cannot  strive  or  cry ;  they 
must  be  sought  and  chosen  for  their  own  sake.  The 
man  who  discerns,  and  sells  all  that  he  has  that  he 
may  buy,  achieves  them  within  his  own  existence. 
By  the  economy  of  the  spiritual  universe,  each 
grandly  noble  and  righteous  deed  goes  to  the  credit 
side  of  every  indorsing  and  coveting  soul's  account. 
Shakespeare  has  made  in  Romeo  simply  a  man  who 
discerns  completely,  —  as  Posthumus  did  not,  and 
buys  the  pearl  of  price  with  all  his  treasure.     JuUet 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET  1 75 

is  but  an  Imogen   nature   more  richly  glorious  and 
alert  with  Beauty. 

The  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  then  but  another  Cymbe- 
luie.  Without  Juliet  it  could  not  have  been  con- 
ceived; and  the  Juliet  in  it  is  not  the  Juliet  of 
Brooke  or  of  Bandello.  Shakespeare  is  the  same 
man,  in  respect  of  spiritual  ideals  and  aims,  at 
twenty-eight  as  at  forty-six,  except  that  he  is  more 
insistent  and  intense.  Why  should  he  have  at- 
tempted such  a  portraiture  as  this  JuHet,  when  his 
fame  and  success  were  yet  a-making }  Expanding 
and  realizing  Brooke's  poem  did  not  require  it. 
Granting  that  Shakespeare  discerned  the  character, 
just  as  we  have  found  it  developed  to  us,  how  shall 
we  explain  his  venturing  with  it  before  the  coarse 
audiences  of  The  Theatre  or  The  Curtain }  We 
know  what  the  behaviour  of  salacious  and  brutal 
men  is  in  playhouses  even  yet,  over  tender  situa- 
tions, when  they  are  in  force  and  dare  to  groan 
or  jeer.  Plays  were  not  seldom  interrupted  in  Shake- 
speare's day,  even  by  high-bred  patrons,  and  the  im- 
personators mocked  and  badgered.  How  then  could 
Shakespeare  have  risked,  before  a  sixteenth-  „, 

^  '  The  power 

century  rabble  of  horse-boys  and  watermen  of  juiiet 
and  their  sort,  with  a  sprinkling  of  gallants  s^ake- 
and  masked  women,  to  present  Juliet  in  the  speare's 
orchard  scene  of  the  Third  Act,  waiting  for 
her  Romeo .''     Yet  we  have  no  reason  to  suspect  that 
the  part  was  ever  greeted  with  so  much  as  a  whisper 
of  ribaldry,  though  the  Juliet  who  paced  the  orchard 
walks  and  said  the  lines,  was  not  a  woman,  but  a  boy. 


1/6  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

There  is  nothing  more  inspired  in  Shakespeare  or  the 
world's  literature,  and  nothing  more  delicate  in  its 
sympathy  with  woman,  —  save  perhaps,  in  some  por- 
tions, the  treatment  of  Viola  in  Twelfth  Night,  —  than 
the  first  paragraph  of  the  scene  in  question.  Shake- 
speare's patrons  would  have  at  that  time  liked  from 
him  such  plays  as  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Ford, 
and  Massinger  later  wrote,  but  no  such  works  did 
they  get.  Shakespeare  alone  of  all  the  craft  grew 
rich.  He  could  not  have  known  beforehand  the 
result  of  refusing  to  cater  to  the  public  taste.  There 
is  no  reasonable  conclusion,  save  that  he  pleased  first 
and  chiefly  of  all  himself,  and  wrote,  even  when  bid- 
den by  Elizabeth,  by  truth. 

As  was  said  earlier,  the  basis  of  the  play  is  certain 
exotic  and  southern  excellencies  of  character,  ex- 
hibited and  evaluated  in  degree.  Our  manner  of 
analysis  has  had  reference  mainly  to  distinctions  of 
kind.  To  have  considered  it  with  full  reference  to 
its  distinctions  of  degree  would  have  involved  more 
technical  and  abstruse  inquiries.  The  outline  anal- 
yses, in  the  Appendix  to  this  volume,  should  clear  up 
matters  left  doubtful  here,  and  enable  an  approximate 
comprehension  of  the  whole  play.  In  art,  or  expedi- 
ents for  the  control  of  the  rjeader's  consents  and  sym- 
pathies, the  piece  is  masterly.  Prominent  among  new 
phases,  achieved  after  the  scene  where  we  parted  with 
the  lovers,  are  the  full  womanising  of  Juliet,  the  evolv- 
ing of  her  feigned  consent  to  marry  Paris,  the  drink- 
ing of  the  potion,  the  awakening  of  Romeo,  and  the 
compelling,  resistless  management  of  the  conclusion. 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET  1 77 

Perhaps  no  single  procedure  is  more  palpable,  or 
striking,  than  the  appropriation  and  merging  of 
Mercutio,  after  his  work  is  done,  into  the  personality 
of  the  hero  that  he  has  been  formed  to  serve.  The 
subordination   of   Mercutio   commences,  as 

Mercutio  s 

has  been  noted,  at  the  opening  of  the  giftsandac 
Second  Act.  Shakespeare  completes  it  by  compiish- 
causing  him  to  suspect  Romeo  of  having  be-  made  over 
gun  an  amour  or  intrigue,  and  by  making  *°  ^o^eo. 
him  offer  a  scurrilous  insult  to  Juliet's  messenger,  in 
the  fourth  scene  following.  Romeo  has  become  at 
this  interview,  in  consequence  of  his  relation  with 
Juliet,  wholly  sane  and  normalised,  and  proves  himself 
no  less  than  a  match,  in  wit-passages,  for  his  late 
overshadowing  friend.  This  finishes  the  second  stage 
of  change.  Then,  after  Mercutio's  quarrel  and  fight 
with  Tybalt,  which  Romeo  quells,  all  his  assets  of 
gifts  and  brilliancy  seem  assumed  and  absorbed  by 
the  hero.  BenvoUo  drops  out  of  sight  and  is  for- 
gotten. Romeo  is  now  the  man  of  the  play.  He 
kills  Tybalt,  whose  chief  accomplishment  is  swords- 
manship, almost  at  the  first  pass.  He  is  grand  and 
perfect  in  his  daring,  and  strength,  and  resolution. 
He  is  aroused,  though  he  is  not  yet  awake.  Of 
course  the  author's  device  is  simple ;  it  is  Romeo's 
sacrifice  to  avenge  his  friend  that  exalts  him,  and 
makes  him  that  friend's  spiritual  heir.  But  the  skill 
of  this  turn,  which  is  not  in  Brooke,  is  worthy  of  all 
praise. 

The  deeper  meanings  of  the  play  can  be  but  touched 
on  here.     The  conditions  under  which  they  are  de- 


1/8  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

veloped  are  idealized  somewhat  in  the  young  man's 
Th  dee  r  ^^7'  Shakespeare  knew  no  science,  as  we 
meaning  of  have  come  to  know  it  in  these  days,  but 
*  ^  P  ^y-  seems  to  have  divined  pretty  clearly  many 
of  its  conclusions.  The  groundwork  of  society,  as  he 
sees  it,  is  wholly  in  accord  with  principles  of  sociology 
and  biology  recognised  to-day.  In  this  drama,  as  just 
said,  he  postulates  the  complete  conditions  that  nature 
would  have  always  precedent  to  her  work.  In  Posthu- 
mus  there  is  too  little  discernment  and  appreciation 
of  Imogen's  worth  to  inspire  him  to  his  full  share  in 
the  work  of  the  world.  Romeo  is  a  man  who  can 
read  a  perfect  woman,  and  place  himself  in  complete 
subservience  to  her  leading  and  inspiration.  Nature 
guards  woman  with  all  her  resources,  and  places  her 
chief  in  the  social  economy ;  man  is  but  secondary. 
Nature  puts  within  her  instincts  that  shape  her 
course ;  man's  is  shaped  by  hers.  Upon  fundamental 
thinking  of  this  kind  Shakespeare  works  out  the  play. 
Juliet  is  shown  at  first  as  merely  a  girl-woman,  hid  in 
the  life  of  the  home,  having  no  secrets  from  her 
mother  and  her  nurse,  and  wholly  free  from  the  in- 
terference of  sex-forces.  Under  our  eye,  she  is 
brought  into  acquaintance  with  the  divinely  appointed 
complement  of  her  life.  The  first  demand  is  that 
she  break  with  the  traditions  of  her  past.  This 
demand  she  meets.  The  woman-instincts  in  her  at 
once  assert  themselves.  She,  and  not  her  lover,  plans 
their  union  and  their  future.  Cut  off  by  fate  from 
present  flight  with  Romeo,  she  is  confronted  with  the 
marriage  to  Paris,  for  some  time   in   prospect,   but 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET  1 79 

precipitated  now  to  temper  the  grief  caused  by  her 
cousin's  death.  She  tries  to  confess  to  her  father, 
but  his  ItaHan  violence  makes  that  impossible.  To 
prevent  with  us  the  notion  of  retreat  the  author  has 
taken  care  to  make  her  by  Romeo's  visit  irrevocably 
a  wife.  The  nurse  that  Shakespeare  has  provided  in 
part  to  keep  her  counsel,  and  help  hide  from  her  par- 
ents that  she  already  has  a  husband,  unblushingly 
advises  that  she  wed  Paris  and  end  her  troubles. 
Astounded  at  the  immorality  of  the  guide  whose 
steps  she  has  followed  hitherto,  Juliet  takes  upon 
herself  all  her  burdens,  and  sets  forth  to  walk  alone. 
By  the  defection  of  the  nurse,  whom  he  has  provided 
to  this  end,  Shakespeare  consummates  the  woman- 
ising  of  his  heroine.  No  course  is  left  but  one  of 
indirections  commended  and  urged  by  her  confessor. 
She  is  to  feign  consent  to  the  marriage,  and  juiiet,  inef- 
bv  a  sleepins:  potion  remove  herself  from  her  fect.accepts 

r,,  1  r  1,,  ,    death  for 

father  s  power,  and  prepare  for  the  belated  Romeo's 
flight  with  Romeo,  who  till  then  shall  know  honour. 
nothing  of  her  trials.     The  strength  of  the  ancient 
Capulets  comes  to  her.    She  goes  to  death,  or  indeed 
experiences  dreaded  worse  than  death,  to  save  Romeo 
his  rights  in  her. 

Such  beautiful  devotion  should  have  been  re- 
warded ;  it  is  tragedy  unspeakable  that  all  this 
endeavour  should  come  to  nought.  There  is  no  de- 
fault on  Juliet's  side.  As  she  awakes,  and  finds  the 
terrors  of  the  place  forestalled  by  Friar  Laurence's 
torch,  the  heaven  of  the  future  seems  to  open.  The 
two   lives,    completed    so   sublimely   each    by   each, 


l80  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

should  have  grown  to  be  the  envy  of  the  gods,  and 
left  their  spiritual  increase  to  the  generations.  But 
all  this  was  not  to  be,  for  in  her  bosom  Romeo  lies 
dead.  There  is  no  swoon,  no  outcry,  no  asking  for 
the  reasons.  The  Anglo-Saxon  woman  would  have 
left  it  all  with  God.  Juliet  has  done  that  long  since, 
and  dies  rather  than  patch  a  life  that  has  lost  its  goal 
and  warrant  of  devotion.  Romeo,  who  has  spoiled 
all,  knows  nothing  of  true  service,  and  has  lived  but 
for  himself.  It  is  not  his  fault,  for  it  is  his  nature, 
and  it  is  thus  far  according  to  the  nature  of  his  sex. 
He  has  looked  for  nothing  but  happiness,  which 
seems  his  right.  Denied  it,  he  is  done  with  the 
world,  and  recognises  no  debt  to  it  or  to  mankind. 
When  his  dream  is  broken  by  the  report  of  Juliet's 
death,  asking  no  questions  as  to  the  manner  of  her 
dying,  pausing  not  to  learn  from  Friar  Laurence  her 
last  words  to  him,  he  hurries  with  Southern  passion 
to  claim  his  place  in  Capulet's  monument,  and  for  no 
good  except  his  own.  His  faith,  hke  Posthumus's, 
has  failed.  He  should  have  guessed  that  JuHet  would 
not  terminate  her  life  without  some  word  or  token  or 
remembrance  for  himself,  and  that  whatever 
ishness  she  has  done,  she  has  done  it  for  his  sake, 
and  wo-       It  is  right  that  man  should  be  selfish,  and  it 

man'ssacri-  ,  ,        i  ■■    ■■  ,      . 

fice,  com-    was  appomtcd  that  he  should  be  such,  just 
piementai     ^s  it  was  appointed  that  woman  should  be 

modes.  .  ^  '■ 

self-immolating.  His  selfishness  makes  him 
strong,  and  his  strength  is  to  be  in  the  fulness  of 
time  for  her  and  for  the  race.  That  fulness  of  time 
for  this  twain  is  come  and  past.     But  Romeo  has  for- 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET  l8l 

gotten  to  be  patient  and  act  for  both.  Juliet  has 
never,  from  the  moment  of  loving  Romeo,  acted  for 
herself,  and  dies  deUberately,  in  the  repose  and  certi- 
tude of  a  fulfilled  career.  Romeo  dies  in  the  white 
intensity  of  a  passion  inconceivable  and  incompre- 
hensible to  Northern  minds.  Were  his  mistake,  Uke 
Posthumus's,  not  mortal,  Juliet  would  have  schooled 
him,  as  Posthumus  was  schooled.  So  must  it  ever 
be,  the  perfect  woman  subduing  her  lord  to  patience, 
and  taming  his  selfishness  unto  the  bearing  of  bur- 
dens, not  his,  not  hers  indeed,  but  God's,  to  the 
end  of  the  discipline  and  perfecting  of  them  both. 
Romeo  and  Juliet  were  ill-starred  lovers  because 
their  trial  came  before  her  work  in  him  was  yet 
begun. 

In  point  of  art,  it  does  not  appear  that  we  have  in 
the  Shakespeare  of  1 592  a  less  ingenious  or  less  con- 
fident master  than  in  the  Shakespeare  of  The  art  of 
1610.    As  regards  insight  and  knowledge  he  Shake- 

r    11  1  •  1  M-  speare  in 

IS  full-grown,  as  touchmg  ability  to  sway  1592  and 
our  sympathies  and  abate  our  prejudices  he  ^^^°* 
shows  no  sign  of  empiric  or  apprentice  powers.  In- 
deed, in  conception,  and  proportion,  and  movement, 
Romeo  and  Juliet  is  superior  to  the  plays  assigned 
to  the  later  year.  In  Cymbeline  and  The  Winter  s 
Tale  there  are  limitations  and  defects  of  plot  that 
Shakespeare  handicaps  himself  with  nowhere  else. 
Nothing,  apparently,  but  availability  to  a  vital  pur- 
pose, as  was  earlier  suggested,  could  have  prompted 
him  to  attempt  the  handling  of  such  refractory  and 
inartistic  material.     In  the  Romeo  aiid Juliet  we  have 


1 82  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

a  good  example  of  the  kind  of  matter  that  Shake- 
speare habitually  selects.  There  is  nowhere  a  better 
plot  or  more  typic  tragedy.  In  some  points  of  execu- 
tion it  falls  much  short  of  what  may  be  found  in 
plays  composed  but  a  few  years  later.  There  are 
Italianisms  and  puns,  there  is  stilted  declamation, 
there  are  passages  cast  throughout  in  rhyme.  But 
these,  except  the  first,  essentially  disappear  after  the 
first  three  scenes,  and  are  even  here,  as  in  the  para- 
graphs of  the  Prince,  of  Romeo,  and  of  his  father, 
manifestly  employed  in  part  with  a  characterising 
purpose. 

In  the  plays  thus  far  attempted,  we  have  noted 
the  author's  art  only  incidentally,  and  with  reference 
to  minor  expedients  and  aspects.  In  the  space  that 
remains  for  this  part  of  our  task,  it  will  be  necessary 
to  consider  Shakespeare  as  an  artist  more  specifically 
in  the  larger  problems  involved  in  the  making  of  a 
great  play.  Perhaps  his  technical  mastery  is  in 
Coriolanus  most  complete  in  kind.  His  achieve- 
ments in  Antony  and  Cleopatra  are  surely  the  most 
considerable  in  degree.  Othello  is  to  be  mentioned 
as  probably  the  most  perfect  of  the  tragedies,  and 
King  Lear  as  the  most  powerful.  Twelfth  Night 
and  The  Merchant  of  Venice  belong  high  in  the  list, 
because  of  excellencies  more  exquisite  and  gentle, 
yet  no  less  unrivalled.  All  these  are  well  adapted 
for  our  purpose,  save  for  extent,  and  for  the  chance 
that  they  might  need  to  be  expounded  throughout 
before  they  could  be  made  to  serve.  Macbeth  is  a 
shorter  play,  and  condensed  in  action,  the  story  and 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET  1 83 

ground-work  are  adequate,  and  familiar  perhaps  to 
the  majority  of  readers.  We  shall  then  try  to  look 
at  the  material  of  this  play  as  Shakespeare  saw  it, 
and  watch  the  treatment  by  which  it  was  made  to 
assume  its  present  form. 


V 

THE   DRAMATIC  ART  OF   MACBETH 

In  every  drama  Shakespeare  quickly  brings  before 
our  minds  a  "  maximum  consummation,"  greatly  to  be 
A"maxi-     desired,  and  makes  us  conceive  and  covet  it 

mum  con-  ,  r     i  i     i  t^i  • 

summa-  as  the  outcomc  of  the  whole.  1  his  consum- 
^'°" "  mation  is  generally  presented  as  early  as  the 

sighted  and  ,      .  .  \^        .         ,  \ 

coveted  at  sccond  Situation,  often  m  the  second  scene, 
the  begin-     jj^  Cvmbtiifie  our  desire  to  see  Imogen  re- 

nmg  of  -^ 

every  play.  Stored  to  her  husband  and  to  her  rights  in 
the  royal  household,  which  is  the  dramatic  consumma- 
tion for  that  play,  is  shaped  after  the  introductory  dia- 
logue in  the  first  scene.^  In  The  Winter's  Tale  our 
conception  and  desire  of  the  conclusion  come  in  the 
second  scene.  In  Romeo  and  Jnliet  it  is  delayed 
until  Scene  iii.,  or  if  the  affinity  between  the  lovers 
is  not  divined  so  early,  in  Scene  v.  The  arousement 
of  interest,  and  of  the  wish  for  a  specific  outcome,  is 
the  first  step  in  Shakespeare's  dramatic,  or,  indeed, 
we  should  say  literary,  treatment  of  every  theme. 

It  does^ot  always  happen  that  we  realise  our  con- 
ceived and  coveted  conclusion  when  the  play  ends ; 
and  in  that  case  we  call  the  whole  a  Tragedy,     In 

^  It  falls  in  the  second  scene,  however,  in  the  earliest  or  Folio  division 
of  the  play,  the  first  scene  ending  at  1.  69.  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  not 
separated  into  acts  or  scenes  in  the  Folio  edition. 

184 


DRAMATIC  ART  1 85 

the  present  instance  Shakespeare  will  have  to  con- 
struct a  drama  of   this  kind,  if  he  follows  „,    ^  . 

'  The  first 

history,  and  Macbeth  will  be  the  hero.  But  condition 
Macbeth  is  neither  great,  nor  good,  nor,  in-  °  ^^^^  ^' 
deed,  much  more,  in  point  of  prowess  and  strength, 
than  an  average  swordsman.  How  can  promise  be 
developed  in  such  a  man,  how  shall  we  be  allured  into 
wishing  to  see  him  king  of  Scotland  by  usurpation, 
or  coveting  for  him  a  brilliant  and  undisturbed  career.^ 
Clearly  enough,  no  maximum  consummation  of  less 
potency  will  carry  the  piece  through.  But  how  shall 
the  author  overcome  our  indifference  to  such  a  hero  ^ 
It  would  be  a  pretty  hard  problem,  if  the  task  could 
be  made  our  own,  for  the  most  of  us.  Our  schools 
of  literature  could  scarcely  help.  The  solution  of 
the  difficulty  is  not  to  be  found  in  rhetoric  or  criti- 
cism, —  else  Shakespeare  would  not  have  reached  it, 
—  but  in  psychology.  Such  control  over  the  imagi- 
nation of  the  reader  must  be  sought  for  as  will  make 
him  disregard  Macbeth's  limitations  as  well  as  Dun- 
can's piety.  Duncan,  we  shall  probably  remember, 
was  historically  a  weak  personage,  wholly  unfit,  in  an 
age  of  violence,  for  kingship.      Holinshed   t^,  „..„  .„ 

o  'or  Duncan  an 

speaks  of  him  as  "  soft  and  gentle  of  nature,"  unkingiy 
and  "negligent  in  the  punishment  of  of-  ^"'^*' 
fenders."  According  to  the  same  authority,  the  rebel 
Macdonwald  called  him  "  a  faint-hearted  milksop,  more 
meet  to  govern  a  sort  of  monks  in  some  cloister  than 
to  have  the  rule  of  such  valiant  and  hardy  men  as  the 
Scots  were."  The  removal  of  such  a  figure  can  be 
managed,  and  much  more  easily  than  the  installation 


1 86  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

of  his  successor.  Since  Shakespeare  cannot  present 
Macbeth  as  one  whom  we  shall  wish  to  see  prosper 
in  his  own  worth,  interest  must  be  supplied  in  some 
way  from  without.  The  prophecy  of  the  Weird 
Sisters,  as  told  in  the  chronicle,  suggests  a  plan. 
Properly  these  Sisters  are  not  at  all  vulgar  witches, 
and  there  is  no  hint  in  Holinshed  to  warrant  their 
presence  in  such  a  role.  Shakespeare  gives  them 
.pj^g  shapes  and  features  not  much  better,  but 

Witches'  makes  them  specific  servants  of  certain 
asers.  gj-g^t  demons,  or  "  principalities,"  of  the  air. 
Witches  have  the  power  to  bind  demoniac  agencies 
to  their  call.  These  Sisters  are  bound  to  the  wills 
severally  of  their  masters,  who,  according  to  notions 
not  wholly  exploded  in  Elizabethan  times,  have  power 
in  shaping  the  destinies  of  nations  and  of  men.  Shake- 
speare has  but  to  make  these  masters  interested  in 
Macbeth's  future,  and  allied  in  the  effort  to  control 
it,  and  the  thing  is  done. 

To  begin  the  play,  it  will  be  necessary  to  advise 
the  audience  or  reader  concerning  the  weak  character 
of  Duncan's  kingship,  and  to  arouse  interest,  if  that 
is  possible,  in  Macbeth  as  the  hero.  To  do  this  with 
the  usual  dramatic  condensation,  it  will  be  necessary 
to  select  some  point  in  Macdonwald's  campaign 
against  Duncan  for  the  moment  of  opening.  Natu- 
rally Shakespeare  chooses  the  battle  in  Lochaber,  in 
which  Macbeth  put  down  that  rebel.  But  Macbeth, 
played,  according  to  Holinshed,  no  very  significant 
part  in  the  fighting  of  the  day ;  he  did  not  kill  Mac- 
donwald,  but .  merely   found   him   dead   in   a   castle 


DRAMATIC  ART  1 8/ 

some  distance  from  the  field.     Evidently  Shakespeare 
will  have  to  enhance  Macbeth's  importance 

,  ,        ,  .  •    11        1         Macdon- 

m  some  way,  and  make  him  essentially  the  waid  not 
chief  figure.     Holinshed  says  nothing  about  '^'^'^'^  ^y 

,        ,Tr.     ,  .,       r  ,  .  1  .      Macbeth. 

the  Witches  until  after  the  victory ;   but  it 
may  be  assumed  that  they  were  interfering  with  the 
natural  course  of   things    considerably   before   that. 
Shakespeare  needs  to  have  their  main  work,  or  their 
masters',  done  before  the  battle  is  concluded. 

A  little  scene  of  eleven  lines  furnishes  a  sufficient 
introduction.     If   the  piece  is  to  run  under  diabolic 
control,   the  supernatural   element  must  be  why  the 
prominent   and    compelling   from  the  first,  witchesare 

'■  "  shown  in 

We  are  not  of  course  to  see  the  demons  ;  the  first 
but  their  representatives,  the  Witch-sisters,  ^'='="^- 
must  be  shown  to  us  in  the  first  scene.  Since  witches 
shun  the  haunts  of  men,  the  scene  will  be  laid  in  a 
"  desert  place,"  or  upon  a  moor.  It  will  not  do  to 
have  clear  weather.  The  Witches,  or  their  masters 
rather,  have  power  over  the  elements.  So  there  is  a 
sullen,  depressing  rain,  with  lightning  and  thunder. 
To  mark  the  presence  of  diaboHsm,  which  never  lacks 
the  serpent's  trail,  this  thunder-storm  is  accompanied 
with  a  thick,  offensive  fog. 

The  time  is  perhaps  two  o'clock,  and  the  battle  has 
raged  since  morning.  The  Witches,  or  at  least  two 
of  them,  have  been  abroad  repeatedly  on  diabolic 
errands,  over  seas  and  continents  perhaps,  at  the 
order  of  the  demons.  But  they  are  so  agog  over 
the  business  which  their  masters  have  in  hand,  and 
which  they  are  in  part  executing  or  to  execute,  that 


1 88  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

they  cannot  help  coming  together,  like  children  tru- 
anting,  to  discuss  the  mischief.  They  have  already, 
we  may  suppose,  met  more  than  once  since  raising 
at  daybreak  the  storm.  They  have  now  been  to- 
gether long  enough  to  exchange  reports  and  give 
some  vent  to  their  enthusiasm  ;  they  are  just  ready 
to  arrange  for  the  next  rendezvous,  as  the  lifting  of 
the  curtain  discovers  them  to  us.  They  agree  to 
stay  away  from  each  other  till  the  battle  is  over,  and 
their  work  with  Macbeth  begins.  They  have  evi- 
dently been  commissioned  to  accost  him,  and  speak 
the  prophecy  that  shall  fix  his  fate. 

All  that  we  need  to  know,  besides  what  we  see,  is 
indicated  potentially  in  the  talk  of  the  three  Sisters. 
We  get  the  suggestion,  to  be  confirmed  {cf.  IV.  i,  ^6) 
r^^^  later,  of  a  difference  in  the  power  or  knowl- 

witches  ledge  of  their  masters.  The  First  Witch 
tIaSdTn  cannot  tell  the  time  or  place.  The  Third 
power  and  Witch  alone  seems  to  know  the  future ;  she 
nowe  ge.  ^g(,]^^gg  ^y^^^  ^]^g  conflict  will  be  ovcr,  and 
that  they  shall  have  met  for  their  work  "  ere  the  set 
of  sun."  They  are  all  manifestly  aware  that  Mac- 
beth is  to  be  victorious.  Who  Macbeth  is,  to  those 
unacquainted  with  Scottish  history,  will  be  made 
known  in  the  next  scene.  That  these  Witches  are 
for  the  moment  off  duty,  perhaps  without  warrant, 
and  are  needed  for  industrious  work  in  the  interim, 
The  inces-  is  now  made  apparent.  The  master  of  the 
ch^ef'^nhe  F^irst  Witch  calls  his  servitor  away.  That 
demons.  immediate  service  is  expected  seems  indubi- 
table from  the  answer,  "  I  come,  Graymalkin,"  which 


DRAMATIC  ART  1 89 

is  of  the  sort  given  to  a  summons  when  known  to  be 
an  urgent  one.  The  second  demon  master  also  de- 
mands the  presence  of  his  minister,  as  we  understand 
from  the  words,  "  Paddock  calls,"  of  the  Second 
Witch,  who  alone  apparently  hears  the  voice.  They 
do  not  seem  to  wait  for  further  summons,  but  rising 
and  circHng  in  the  air  together,  they  cry  "  Anon  "  to 
their  masters,^  and  chant,  presumably  to  them,  a  dia- 
bolic confession  of  faith,  and  a  prayer,  as  they  pass 
from   the  scene.     The  Third  Witch  seems  t,,    „. .  , 

The  Third 

not  summoned  away,  like  the  others,  to  dis-  witch  not 
tant  service,  and  it  may  be  has  been  detailed  ^"""""^"^  • 
to  remain  near  the  place  of  fighting,  and  assist  the 
issue.  She  alone  of  the  Witch  Sisters  makes  no 
report,  on  their  next  coming  together,  of  aerial  voy- 
aging and  of  wicked  havoc  wrought  in  other  lands. 

We  need  now  to  see  how  the  demon  agencies, 
through  the  Third  Witch,  or  perhaps  without  her, 
are  giving  aid  to  Macbeth  in  the  field.  Were  it  dra- 
matically wise  or  safe,  the  author  would  enact  the 
struggle,  and  let  us  see  the  help  administered,  from 
the  Witches'  masters,  with  our  own  eyes.  But  a 
battle  is  a  difficult  affair  to  show  upon  the  The  battle 
stage ;  and  there  would  be  risk  here  lest  the  pol'ted^ot 
spectacular  effect  of  such  a  thing  hinder  in  shown. 
some  measure  our  interest  in  the  hero  that  is  to  be. 
It  will  be  better  to  leave  the  magnitude  and  details 
of  the  conflict  to  imagination.  In  that  case  there 
must  be  some  one  to  tell  the  story;  and  it  will  not 

^  The  Folio  text  does  not  give  "  Anon,"  as  found  generally  in  mod- 
ern readings,  to  the  Third  Witch. 


1 90  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

do  to  wait  for  it  until  all  is  over.  Some  eyewitness 
must  come  in  from  the  scene  and  report  while  the 
fight  is  on.  Naturally  this  person,  who  is  to  with- 
draw before  the  battle  is  finished,  will  have  been 
wounded ;  otherwise  his  testimony  will  not  affect  us 
very  strongly.  If  he  is  wounded,  and  severely,  his 
bloody  plight  may  be  used,  as  visual  evidence  and 
earnest,  to  bring  the  awfulness  of  the  battle  home  to 
us  more  effectually.  Finally,  this  bleeding  messen- 
ger should  be  something  more  than  a  common  soldier, 
lest  we  conceive  his  testimony  incompetent,  and  lest 
it  be  lamely  rendered. 

To  whom  shall  the  messenger  report  how  the  fight 
is  going .''  Presumably  not  to  the  King,  who  should 
be  at  the  head  of  his  soldiers  in  the  field.  In  fact, 
according  to  Holinshed,  Duncan  is  at  this  moment 
leading  the  third  division  of  the  Scottish  army.  Yet, 
to  institute  a  sufficient  contrast  between  Macbeth  and 
Duncan,  the  author  may  be  forced  to  present  the 
King  as  unmartial  enough  to  shirk  the  fighting,  and 
indeed  to  post  himself  at  some  distance  from  it,  not 
Malcolm,  in  a  place  of  observation,  but  of  safety.  Ex- 
Duncan^  actly  this  wc  find  Shakespeare  has  done, 
unmartial.  To  show  bcsidcs  that  Duncan's  pusillani- 
mousness  is  not  merely  personal,  but  characterises 
the  reigning  family  as  a  whole,  it  will  be  necessary 
but  to  present  Malcolm,  the  King's  grown-up  son,  as 
having  tried  to  fight,  and  as  having  been  saved  from 
capture  by  the  sergeant  who  is  later  to  come  away 
wounded  and  tell  the  story.  Shakespeare  begins  the 
scene  by  this  generic  characterisation  of  father  and  son. 


DRAMATIC  ART  I91 

We  know  from  Holinshed  that  Macbeth  was 
obliged  to  defeat  the  Danes,  as  well  as  the  forces  of 
Macdonwald,  before  he  could  reestablish  the  power 
of  Duncan.  It  will  not  do  much  harm  to  condense 
these  campaigns,  or  rather  the  two  great  battles  in 
which  they  respectively  culminated,  into  one.  It  is 
this  composite  battle  that  Shakespeare  will  ^^^ 
describe  to  us  in  the  second  scene.  The  composite 
fight  with  Macdonwald  will  of  course  come  ^"*' 
first.  If  the  witch-masters  in  this,  as  Holinshed  tells 
of  it,  helped  Macbeth's  side,  they  must  have  assisted 
the  army  and  not  the  chieftain.  Macdonwald,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  not  killed  by  Macbeth,  and  did  not 
meet  his  fate  till  after  the  battle.  Shakespeare  must 
make  the  work  of  the  demons  more  unequivocal. 
Macdonwald  is  a  ruffianly  warrior,  apparently  Mac- 
beth's superior  in  strength  and  size.  In  a  sword 
duel  between  these  two,  it  should  naturally  go  hard 
with  Macbeth.  Now  the  work  of  witchcraft  becomes 
apparent.  Macdonwald  finds  that  he  cannot  com- 
mand his  accustomed  adroitness  and  en-  jyij^^^jQ^. 
ergy.  Macbeth  easily  fends  his  thrusts,  and  waid's  loss 
assails  him  tellingly  with  counter-strokes.  °  •courage. 
Of  course  Macbeth  does  not  know  that  his  foe  is 
handicapped,  by  the  agency  of  the  Third  Witch,  or 
by  some  other  means,  to  his  own  infinite  advantage. 
He  cannot  but  suppose  that  his  success  is  due  to  some 
newly  awakened  strength  and  dexterity  of  his  own. 
In  an  access  of  contempt  for  such  a  blundering  an- 
tagonist, he  lets  go  a  thrust  that  the  merest  tyro 
should   have  warded  off,  and   "unseams"  Macdon- 


192  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

wald,  armour  as  well  as  body,  from  the  cuirass  to  the 
helmet.  The  combat  and  its  issue  are  witnessed 
apparently  by  both  armies,  and  Macdonwald's  sol- 
diers precipitously  flee.  Immediately  after  begins, 
between  Macbeth's  forces  and  the  Danes,  the 
second  battle.  By  the  same  supernatural  leading, 
Macbeth  and  the  Berserk  commander,  Sweno,  seem 
The  place  to  havc  been  brought  together.  Macbeth 
^^"^  ^^^ .,      now  has  almost  his  match.     It  is   a   good 

sergeant  s  _  " 

story.  place,  while  the  combat  hangs  in  the  bal- 

ance, to  withdraw  the  man  who  is  to  tell  Duncan 
and  ourselves  of  Macbeth's  astonishing  bravery  and 
strength.  So  the  author  brings  off  the  sergeant  — 
wounded  apparently  in  the  first  engagement  and 
weak  now  with  his  hurts  —  from  the  field  at  this 
point  in  search  of  doctors,  and  uses  his  coming  as 
the  occasion  to  start  the  scene. 

King  Duncan  shows  a  pedantic  interest  in  learning 
"  of  the  revolt  the  newest  state,"  and  Malcolm  almost 
Further  ^s  affcctcdly  bids  the  sergeant  '  say  to  the 
character!-    King  the  knowledge  of  the  droil  as  he  did 

sation  of  .     ,         t^  t^    i       •        ti  i  i 

theDuncan  leave  it.  Duucan,  rolonms-like,  lets  the 
family.  j^g^^  bleed  himself  faint,  while  he  tells  thi 
wonderful  story  of  Macbeth's  slaughtering  the  rebel 
chief.  He  begins  to  explain  how  the  single  combat 
between  Sweno  and  Macbeth  stood,  as  he  left  it, 
doubtful 

As  two  spent  swimmers  that  do  cling  together 
And  choke  their  art,  — 

but  his  strength  fails  him.  As  he  reels  from  loss  of 
blood,  and  is  helped  away,  another  messenger  some- 


DRAMATIC  ART  1 93 

what  excitedly  approaches.  This  time  it  is  Ross, 
one  of  the  King's  thanes,  with  an  official  report. 

In  the  interval  between  the  sergeant's  withdrawal 
from  the  field  and  Ross's  coming,  the  battle  with  the 
Norwegians  has  been  finished.  Sweno  has  been 
forced,  in  spite  of  his  viking  rage  and  strength,  to 
yield  to  the  onslaughts  of  Macbeth's  claymore,  and 
sue  for  quarter.  Shakespeare  does  not  say  specifi- 
cally that  the  combat  has  been  mainly  a  single  one, 
between  these  heads  of  the  two  armies ;  but  he  cer- 
tainly, in  the  sergeant's  language  just  quoted,  implies 
as  much,  and  Ross's  words  bear  out  the  same  pre- 
sumption. Ross  is  evidently  no  worshipper  of  his 
commanding  general,  as  the  sergeant  is.  He  has 
seen  nothing  that  he  is  willing  to  think  remarkable ; 
he  does  not  mention  Macbeth's  name.  Remember- 
ing that  Macbeth  is  Duncan's  cousin,  and  by  blood 
equally  with  him  entitled  to  the  throne,  we  can  guess 
Ross's  feeling.  Duncan's  rule  is  a  failure ;  the 
Scotch  nobility  despise  him  :  Macbeth  is  a  possible 
successor.  But  Ross,  who  is  of  rank  not  inferior  to 
Macbeth,  does  not  wish  to  come  under  the  authority 
of  one  from  among  his  peers. 

But  the  thing  that  Ross  does  not  crave  is  the  very 
outcome  that  we  desire.  We  wish  to  see  Macbeth 
king  in  Duncan's  place.  This  is  the  second  The"maxi. 
scene  of  the  First  Act,  and  the  "  maximum  "^""^  '=°"" 

summa- 

consummation     is  coming  into  view.     Mac-  tion "  now 
beth,  through  the  power  of  the  demons,  has  ^'g^^^^- 
saved  Scotland,  and  will  be  hailed  by  the  whole  nation 
as  its  deliverer.     We  know  how  a  people  idolize  the 


194  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

hero  of  a  telling  victory.  Of  course  we  know  that 
Macbeth  could  not,  of  himself,  have  won  his  double 
triumph,  but  that  makes  small  difference  with  us.  If 
he  were  really  a  brilliant  and  great  man,  if  he  had, 
like  a  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  put  down  Macdonwald 
and  Sweno  by  dint  of  personal  resources  only,  we 
should  covet  to  see  him  king  for  his  own  sake.  As  it 
is,  we  perhaps  crave  mainly  to  witness  what  the  witch- 
powers  can  do  with  him  and  through  him  for  the 
good  of  Scotland.  We  have  taken  his  successes  as 
the  earnest  of  coming  prodigies  of  valour,  and  are  in- 
fluenced, probably  more  than  we  are  aware,  by  the 
hope  of  seeing  some  of  his  feats  enacted  openly  in 
progress  of  the  play. 

The  piece  is  certainly  now  well  launched,  and  only 
seventy-nine  lines  have  been  used  to  impart  all  need- 
ful knowledge,  and  to  engage  our  sympathies  for  the 
Reading  hcro.  Thesc  first  two  scenes  furnish  a  good 
between  example  of  the  potentialness  that  all  great 
ines.  lite^-ature  must  embody.  Very  little  of  the 
meaning  that  has  stirred  us  is  told  literally  or  directly. 
We  have  discerned  it  through  and  beyond  the 
medium  of  the  text;  we  have  read  it,  as  we  say, 
between  the  lines.  To  do  this  is  of  course  to  inter- 
pret Shakespeare,  and  in  some  measure  to  discover 
the  art  by  which  he  works.  But  the  condensation 
and  potentialness  here  are  by  no  means  typical  of  the 
play,  or  of  literature  at  large.  No  other  drama  of 
Shakespeare's,  perhaps  nothing  in  modern  authorship, 
is  quite  so  hard  to  grasp  in  the  opening  situations. 
Elsewhere  the  Macbeth  is  simple,  and  worked  out  in 


DRAMATIC  ART  1 95 

accordance  with  the  plainest  laws.  Moreover,  the 
scene  just  finished  has  involved  an  interruption  of  the 
plot,  since  it  would  have  been  more  natural  to  present 
the  return  of  the  Witches,  and  their  meeting  with 
Macbeth,  in  the  scene  next  following  the  one  in  which 
they  are  made  to  promise  it  so  formally.  This  meet- 
ing is  not  to  be  longer  delayed.  The  third  scene 
opens  with  the  Three  Sisters  in  waiting  across  the 
path  of  the  returning  army,  some  minutes  before  the 
arrival  of  Macbeth.  It  will  be  well  to  revive  our  im- 
pressions of  the  Witches,  and  prepare  imagination 
for  their  roles.  So  the  author  provides  this  interval 
that  we  may  hear  them  rehearse  the  mischief  that 
they  have  been  doing.  The  Second  Witch  has  been 
at  work,  perhaps  not  outside  the  boundaries  of  Scot- 
land, killing  swine.  The  First  Witch  has  certainly 
voyaged  out  as  far  as  Hull,  or  London,  or  some  other 
considerable  seaport  town,  where  sailors'  wives  may 
be  seen  sitting  beside  their  cottage  doors.  She  has 
been  rebuffed  by  one  of  these  women,  and  is  prepar- 
ing for  revenge.  This  ship-master's  wife  is  a  devout 
woman  probably  ;  there  is  no  effort  or  purpose  to 
inflict  bodily  injury  upon  her.  Her  prayers  seem  to 
insure  the  protection  also  of  her  husband  ;  r^^^  power 
the  demons  cannot  touch  his  life  or  wreck  of  these 
his  ship.  But  the  First  Witch  is  permitted 
to  harass  him  by  terrifying  storms,  and  she  vows  to 
keep  up  this  torture  for  nineteen  months  and  over, 
almost  two  years.  She  has  recouped  herself  pro- 
visionally, as  it  appears,  with  another  victim.  She 
has  encountered  somewhere  in  her  wanderings,  upon 


196  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

the  sea,  a  similar  vessel,  whose  master  seems  not  to 
have  a  praying  wife.  She  has  wrecked  this  ship,  on 
the  homeward  voyage,  and  exhibits  to  her  sisters, 
as  a  trophy,  torn  from  his  dead  body,  its  pilot's 
thumb.  This  is  surely  evidence  enough  concerning 
the  disposition  of  the  Witches,  and  the  power  they 
wield.  Our  hero,  unless  he  too  has  a  guardian  to 
shield  him  with  her  prayers,  will  be  in  no  small 
jeopardy.  Even  at  this  moment  the  Sisters  are  wind- 
ing up  a  charm  to  his  weal  or  ruin  ;  for  the  sound  of 
a  drum  tells  us  that  Macbeth's  guard  of  honour  is 
approaching. 

It  is  well  to  know  the  state  of  Macbeth's  feelings, 
whether  he  is  elated  over  his  exploits.  If  he  were 
A  hint  of  truly  great,  if  he  had  won  his  victories  him- 
Macbeth's  self,  he  would  have  forgotten  them.  His 
eeings.  ^^^^  words  show  that  they  have  not  by  any 
means  passed  from  his  mind.  He  realises  that  he 
will  be  looked  upon  as  the  greatest  man  in  Scotland. 
Like  Dewey  after  the  battle  of  Manila,  he  will  be 
everybody's  hero,  and  the  chief  figure  in  the  whole 
country.  Banquo,  who  has  done  his  best,  and  is 
free  from  vanity,  can  be  used  as  Macbeth's  foil.  He 
is  thinking  simply  of  how  far  it  is  to  Forres,  and 
how  soon  the  march  to  that  town  will  be  over.  At 
this  moment  the  presence  of  the  Witches  becomes 
visible.  The  Witch-Norn  of  the  Past  salutes  Mac- 
beth as  Thane  of  Glamis,  a  title  that  he  has  inherited 
lately,  but  not  assumed  as  yet.  The  Witch-Norn  of 
the  Present  hails  him  as  Thane  of  Cawdor,  an  honour 
which  has  but  a  few  minutes  been   his,  and  which 


DRAMATIC  ART  1 97 

the  King's  messengers,  Ross  and  Angus,  are  on 
their  way  now  to  make  known.  Of  course  the 
Witches  cannot  have  come  by  the  knowledge  of 
Cawdor's  sentence  and  Macbeth's  advancement  by 
any  human  means.  It  is  a  strongly  dramatic  mo- 
ment, and  carries  our  interest  to  the  highest  point 
yet  reached.  Then  comes  that  for  which  everything 
thus  far  has  furnished  only  preparation.  The  Third 
Witch,  speaking  slowly  and  weightily  and  ominously, 
as  the  Norn  of  the  Future,  declares  her  prophecy  :  — 

All  hail,  Macbeth,  that  shalt  be  King  hereafter ! 

We  cannot  but  believe,  and  much  as  Macbeth  him- 
self believes,  in  the  kingship  the  Weird  Sister  prom- 
ises. Shakespeare  has  appealed  to  our  imaginations, 
by  this  stroke,  ingeniously  and  well.  He  has  made 
us  conceive  the  maximum  consummation  again,  and 
more  intensely.  This  repetition  and  intensification 
are  common  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  and  for  that 
matter  also  in  novels,  which  are  typically  but  extended 
dramas,  the  chapter  being  scenes. 

It  is  necessary  that  we  should  be  committed  to  the 
fortunes  of  the  hero  much  more  completely.  The 
author  has  done  all  that  can  be  done  by  direct  pro- 
cesses. His  best  recourse,  after  he  has  made  us 
imagine  and  covet  his  maximum  conclusion  The  Minor 
as  strongly  as  the  nature  of  the  case  allows,  Obstacle, 
is  to  irk  us  with  obstacles  to  the  consummation  of 
our  wish.  He  presents  the  first  of  these  as  soon  as 
the  prophecy  of  the  Third  Witch  is  uttered.  Mac- 
beth starts,  and  seems  to  be  afraid  of  something  that 


198  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

the  promised  elevation  will  involve.  We  infer  that 
he  will  do  nothing  himself  to  secure  the  crown,  and 
will  perhaps,  if  the  army  or  the  nobles  revolt  and 
declare  for  him,  even  resist  their  wish.  He  has 
seemingly  felt  the  temptation  to  use  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  soldiers  and  the  prestige  of  his  double  victory, 
as  the  warrant  for  dethroning  Duncan.  But  his 
popularity  is  too  dear  to  throw  away,  and  he  has 
apparently  determined  to  remain  wholly  true  and 
loyal  to  the  King.  But  now  the  salutation  of  the 
Third  Witch  seems  to  stir  him  with  concern  lest  he 
be  forced  to  sacrifice  his  conscience  and  self-respect. 
His  will  is  free;  he  has  not  been  bewitched.  But 
he  is  afraid  lest  he  shall  change  his  mind.  Ross 
and  Angus  arrive,  confirming  the  prophecy  of  the 
Second  Witch,  and  removing  all  doubt  from  Mac- 
beth's  mind.  As  his  confidence  in  the  Witches  grows, 
his  unwillingness  to  ally  himself  with  his  destiny 
increases.  He  debates  the  matter  absorbingly,  for- 
getting the  presence  of  his  friends.  His  future,  we 
feel,  lies  largely  in  his  own  choice.  The  scene 
closes  with  his  earlier  resolution  unaltered,  or  indeed 
confirmed,  by  this  decision  to  remain  neutral  and 
await  events. 

Of  the  hindrances  or  obstacles  to  the  consumma- 
tion of  a  plot,  two  must  be  exhibited  as  of  greater 
The  Major  prominence  than  the  others ;  and  one  of 
Obstacle,  t^ese  must  last  longer,  and  involve  more 
effort  to  overcome.  Macbeth's  reluctance  to  act  for 
himself,  which  has  just  been  shown,  is  the  Minor 
Obstacle.     The  Major  Obstacle  will  be  presented  in 


DRAMATIC   ART  1 99 

the  next  scene.  This  the  author  finds  in  the  material, 
moulded  almost  to  his  hand.  We  have  hoped,  and 
HoHnshed  says  that  Macbeth  also  has  hoped,  that 
Duncan  will  abdicate  in  Macbeth's  favour,  or  at  least 
bequeath  to  him  the  succession.  The  throne  is  not 
as  yet  hereditary ;  Duncan  can  reward  the  saviour  of 
Scotland  if  he  will.  But  he  expects  to  rule  by  virtue 
of  his  helplessness ;  he  is  too  intrenched  in  his  over- 
weening, grandfatherly  superiority  to  think  of  paying 
the  country's  obhgations,  or  his  own,  in  anything  but 
empty  promises.  At  the  earliest  moment  possible, 
even  before  the  dead  from  his  faithful  battalions  are 
buried,  he  proclaims  Malcolm  Prince  of  Cumberland, 
and  heir  to  the  crown.  Nothing  can  bring  Macbeth 
to  kingship  now  but  the  most  drastic  measures. 
Shakespeare  ends  the  scene  by  starting  Duncan  out 
upon  a  progress,  apparently  to  attach  his  thanes  to 
himself  more  closely,  and  prevent  a  new  rebellion. 
He  will  naturally  visit  first  his  kinsman  at  Inverness. 
There  will  be  no  harm  in  our  imagining  ourselves, 
for  the  rest  of  the  play,  apprentices  of  Shakespeare, 
and  permitted  to  work  at  his  problems  Removal 
with  him.  How  shall  we  engage  Macbeth  l^^^^^j. 
to  insist  a  little  upon  his  rights,  and  so  lift  Obstacle. 
the  Minor  Obstacle  from  the  plot }  The  witch-forces' 
must  not  be  used  further,  or  we  shall  spoil  the  whole. 
Macbeth  must  be  left  a  free  moral  agent  at  any  cost. 
Holinshed  reports  that  Macbeth's  resolution  fully 
gave  way  after  Duncan  fixed  the  succession  upon 
Malcolm.  It  will  not  do  to  have  our  hero  act  like 
that.     The  forces  that   shall  carry  him  into  revolt 


200  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

must  come  from  beyond  himself.  The  new  factor 
that  is  needed  can  be  supplied  in  the  person  of  his 
wife. 

The  fifth  scene  need  not  be  a  long  one.  We  must 
show  that  Macbeth,  while  in  the  field,  keeps  in  com- 
munication with  Lady  Macbeth,  and  is  inspired  by 
her.  So  we  can  open  by  having  Lady  Macbeth  read 
from  a  letter  just  received  from  her  husband.  By 
making  this  letter  to  have  been  written  after  the  bat- 
tle, and  his  meeting  with  the  Witches,  but  before  his 
interview  with  the  King  at  Forres,  we  can  indicate 
how  constantly  Macbeth  has  despatched  couriers  to 
her. 

Lady  Macbeth  must  not  be  made  such  a  woman 
as  to  be  pleased  merely,  when  the  prophecy  of  the 
Witches  is  reached.  Her  interest  must  amount  to 
an  immediate  and  compelling  resolution ;  or,  as  we 
find, — 

Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor,  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promised  ! 

Macbeth  shall  be  king  whether  he  wills  or  not.  And 
she  will  know  as  well  as  the  audience  does  how 
Macbeth  is  hesitating.  He  is  too  scrupu- 
Macbeth  lous.  He  would  not  play  false,  yet  is  not 
impatient  unwilHug,  if  he  may  win,  to  win  unrightly. 
husband's  It  will  not  do  to  make  her  resolve  thus  for 
advance-      j^gj-  ^^^  sake.     It  must  be  for  her  husband, 

ment. 

because  she  loves  him,  is  proud  of  him,  and 
believes  him  deprived  scandalously  of  his  deserts. 
She  must  not  seem  conscienceless  or  evil,  but  so 
intense  of  temperament  and  imagination  as  to  real- 


DRAMATIC  ART  20I 

ise  to  the  uttermost  the  promise  and  the  opportunity 
that  are  theirs. 

Knowledge  that  the  King  is  coming  will  naturally 
arouse  Lady  Macbeth's  energies  to  the  highest  pitch. 
Duncan  is  an  unsuspicious,  inoffensive  man ;  she 
feels  that  almost  anything  can  happen,  if  he  is  once 
shut  up  within  her  castle.  It  will  not  do  to  show  her 
coarse  or  cruel ;  we  should  fail  of  everybody's  sympa- 
thy for  her  and  for  her  husband.  We  must  make  her 
betray  to  us,  by  a  fresh  soliloquy,  what  a  supreme 
and  awful  thing,  to  her  own  soul,  she  is  conceiving. 
We  must  make  her  tremble  at  the  thought  of  violence 
and  blood.  We  must  make  her  cry  out  to  the  unseen 
powers,  evil  ones,  to  the  witch-masters,  if  need  be, 
for  help  against  the  weakness  of  her  nature.  Shake- 
speare does  just  these  things,  and  grandly:  — 

Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts  ;  unsex  me  here, 
And  fill  me  from  the  crown  to  the  toe  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  ! 

Her  conscience,  she  knows,  will  torture  her.  She 
must  pray  to  be  fortified  against  that :  — 

Stop  up  th'  access  and  passage  to  remorse, 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect  and  it. 

Then  her  womanly  instincts  and  promptings,  the 
desire  to  mother  helplessness  and  infirmity,  like  Dun- 
can's, must  be  given  up,  however  precious,  for  her 
husband's    sake.      Never    was    there    prayer    more 


202  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

pathetic  and  self-immolating  than  this  cry  for  help 
against  her  maternal  nature  :  — 

Come  to  my  woman's  breasts 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murth'ring  ministers, 
Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 
You  wait  on  nature's  mischief! 

Finally,  there  is  the  dread  of  seeing  the  victim  and 
his  ghastly  wound,  to  be  reckoned  with ;  the  fear, 
too,  of  the  searching  eye  of  God,  who  it  may  be  will 
thunder  out  in  protest  against  the  killing  of  so  true 
a  saint :  — 

Come,  thick  night, 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 
Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark. 
To  cry,  "  Hold,  hold  !  " 

Lady  Macbeth  must  worship  her  husband  in  no 
ordinary  measure ;  such  devotion  and  sacrifice  were 
Lady  Mac-  elsc  incredible.  It  will  be  well  to  bring  this 
shipofTei-  ^^^'  ^o^,  as  Macbcth's  hurried  step  is 
husband,  heard  outside,  comes  the  opportunity.  We 
shall  have  her  greet  her  husband  in  the  fullest  pride 
and  admiration  of  the  feats  which  he  has  told  her  of, 
and  which  she  thinks  all  his :  — 

Great  Glamis  !      Worthy  Cawdor  ! 
Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter  ! 

Macbeth,  in  spite  of  Duncan's  ingratitude  and 
snubs,  is  not  disloyal.  He  is  not  ready  to  will  harm 
Macbeth's  to  the  King,  whom  he  has  always  stood  by 
first  fear,  valorously.  His  conscience  is  clear  thus 
far.     He  has  known   no   fears  until  now,  when  he 


DRAMATIC  ART  203 

reads  the  determination  in  Lady  Macbeth's  face,  and 
hears  her  say  that  Duncan  shall  never  go  out  from 
their  castle.  He  has  been  made  such  a  man  from 
the  beginning  as  would  blanch  at  a  turn  like  this. 
The  risk  and  rashness  of  such  a  course  are  patent 
to  any  masculine  imagination.  Only  her  feminine 
intensity  keeps  Lady  Macbeth  from  seeing  the  ruin 
that  it  will  bring  upon  her  husband  and  herself.  Of 
all  possible  plots,  that  of  killing  Duncan  in  their  own 
home  is  probably  the  most  foolish.  But  this  is  not 
what  we  want  our  audience  to  see  or  feel  at  present. 
We  wish  merely  to  get  its  more  complete  sympathy, 
through  the  dismay  that  Lady  Macbeth's  resolve 
arouses  in  him,  for  Macbeth ;  and  that  has  now  been 
done. 

Will  it  not  be  well  to  bring  Duncan  once  more  to 
view,  as  he  comes  into  the  power  of  Lady  Macbeth, 
before  his  doom .-'  He  must  have  a  cham-  Banquo  to 
berlain,  who  shall   be    responsible   for   his  serve  as 

'^  Duncan  s 

safety.  It  will  save  the  introduction  of  a  chamber- 
new  character  to  put  Banquo  at  that  service.  '^'"" 
It  will  be  well  also,  if  we  think  our  audience  can  bear 
it,  to  exhibit  Duncan's  refined,  poetic  nature  more 
completely.  There  must  be  a  new  scene,  of  course ; 
and  Shakespeare  will  need  but  two  paragraphs  to 
show  him  as  a  man  born  out  of  his  proper  age  into  a 
century  of  intrigue  and  violence.  We  shall  not  let 
Macbeth  come  out  to  welcome  his  kinsman  ;  he  is  still 
too  agitated.  Lady  Macbeth  will  assume  all  smiles 
and  graciousness,  yet  will  scarcely  escape  the  tempta- 
tion to  allude,  in  deepest  irony,  to 


204  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

those  honours  deep  and  broad  wherewith 
Your  majesty  loads  our  house. 

Duncan  will  be  flattered  most  comfortably,  and  feel 
that  he  has  done  exceedingly  well  by  his  deliverer. 

The  first  crisis  of  the  play  is  reached.  Macbeth's 
aversion  must  now  give  way,  or  be  established  in  the 
plot.  It  is  possible  to  have  the  Minor  Obstacle,  in 
plays  and  novels,  eventuate  according  to  the  wishes 
of  the  reader,  or  against  them.  In  TJie  Winter  s  Tale 
and  Cymbcline,  as  we  shall  presently  see  in  detail,  the 
Minor  Obstacle  remains  unabated,  and  brings  its 
worst  of  consequences  in  each  case  upon  the  after- 
play.  In  the  seventh  scene,  which  must  now  begin, 
we  shall  resist  the  temptation  to  enact  the  banquet 
to  Duncan's  honour.  We  can  have  music  playing,  and 
the  noise  of  plate  and  glasses,  in  the  great  feasting 
hall,  with  waiters  and  butlers  passing  and  repassing 
thither  and  from  it.  The  audience  will  on  these  hints 
adequately  picture  the  scene  within,  —  the  King  in 
comfort.  Lady  Macbeth  plying  her  guest  with  demon- 
strative attentions,  and  her  husband  sitting  in  laboured 
and  unassisting  submission.  Then,  if  we  have  any- 
thing like  the  tact  of  Shakespeare,  we  shall  in  due 
time  bring  away  Macbeth,  overcome  by  the  influences 
of  Duncan's  naive  and  trustful  presence,  to  advise 
with  himself  effectually.  We  shall  make  him  develop 
his  scruples  and  hesitation  into  definite  reasons,  five 
of  them,  why  he  shall  remain  neutral  and  loyal.  As 
soon  as  he  has  declared  himself,  the  work  of  Lady 
Macbeth  must  begin.  She  will  have  divined  the 
cause  of  his  leaving  his  guest,  and  will  go  out  to  re- 


DRAMATIC  ART  205 

assume  control,  and  prevent  revolt.  She  will  natu- 
rally first  try  sarcasm.  He  knows  that  he  is  her  ideal 
of  daring  and  heroism.  If  she  is  made  to  insinuate 
that  his  courage  is  not  equal  to  his  ambition,  he  will 
be  stirred.  What  she,  who  is  no  conqueror  of  Sweno 
or  Macdonwald,  could  do  with  hei  own  babe,  —  or 
thinks  she  could,  —  were  his  problems  hers,  will  put 
him  to  very  shame.  Then  the  suggestion  of  a  plan, 
which  in  the  exigency  will  seem  not  only  practicable 
but  brilliant,  and  the  thing  is  done  :  — 

I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 
Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat. 

The  Minor  Obstacle  has  been  lifted,  and  the  First 
Act  precipitately  ends.  The  close  of  the  First  Act 
is  always  shaped  and  determined  thus  in  ^j^^  j^^^ 
Shakespeare,  on  the  proper  resolution  of  for  dosing 
the  earlier  or  Minor  Obstacle.  A  corre-  ^  "^^  ^' 
sponding  break,  generally  after  about  one-fifth  of  the 
whole  number  of  pages,  will  be  found  typical  in  the 
structure  of  the  novel. 

The  resolution  of  the  Major  Obstacle  comes  close 
after  the  resolution  of  the  Minor,  with  but  a  scene 
between.  The  Major  Obstacle  is  always  removed  or 
estabhshed  in  the  second  scene  of  the  Second  Act. 
Sometimes,  as  in  Cymbeline,  the  intervening  scene  is 
but  a  makeshift  one.  There  is  plenty  of  substance 
out  of  which  to  make  a  first  scene  here.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  show  Banquo's  defection  from  loyalty.  He 
has  read  out  of  Macbeth's  face,  during  the  banquet, 
and  out  of  Lady  Macbeth's  suppressed  excitement, 


206  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

what  they  are  intending.  He  has  ushered  Duncan 
Banquo's  to  his  apartments,  and  seen  his  master  in  bed 
from  the"  ^^^  ^^^  ^ig^^,  yet  with  no  least  word  of 
King.  warning.      He  should  have  placed  a  guard 

over  his  charge.  Instead,  he  lets  the  King  go  to  his 
doom.  Yet,  to  show  that  he  is  not  actively  disloyal, 
it  may  be  well  to  have  Macbeth  approach  him  with 
overtures  for  a  transferred  allegiance.  Shakespeare 
does  this  with  inimitable  succinctness  and  strength  :  — 

Macbeth.     If  you  shall  cleave  to  my  consent,  when  'tis, 
It  shall  make  honour  for  you. 

Banquo.  So  I  lose  none 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 
My  bosom  franchis'd  and  my  allegiance  clear, 
I  shall  be  counsell'd. 

It  is  Macbeth's  first  defeat.  He  will  never  speak  to 
Banquo  about  "cleaving  to  his  consent,"  again. 

Will  Macbeth  be  equal  to  the  execution  of  his 
resolve .''  Since  taking  that  resolution,  he  is  a 
The  new  changed  man.  He  is  not  bewitched,  per- 
ness  of  "^  haps,  but  the  evil  powers  have  possessed  his 
Macbeth,  soul.  The  demon  influences  are  by,  and 
can  easily  furnish  means  of  exhibiting  to  us  how 
their  victim  feels.  They  shall  display  to  him,  and 
us,  a  phantom  dagger,  and  make  it  move  before  him 
toward  Duncan's  chamber.  Macbeth  will  not  start, 
or  shudder,  or  feel  horror  at  the  thought  of  following. 
On  the  contrary,  he  finds  himself  prompted  to  clutch 
it.  Drops  of  blood  come  out  upon  the  blade  and 
handle.  It  is  an  uncanny,  diabolic  spectacle ;  but 
Macbeth  senses  nothing  abnormal  or  hostile  to  his 


DRAMATIC  ART  207 

moral  nature.  Out  from  the  stillness  of  the  night 
rise  suggestions  and  visions,  not  of  innocence,  but 
of  the  blackest  and  most  revolting  crimes. 

The  interest  from  Lady  Macbeth's  devotion  may 
be  culminated  now.  When  she  first  dismayed  her 
husband,  on  his  return  from  the  fighting,  by  her  de- 
cision, she  resolved  that  she  would  make  him  king  in 
his  own  despite,  and  without  his  help.  The  worri- 
ment  that  her  purpose  has  since  caused  him  stirs  her 
soul  with  a  new  enthusiasm.  He  has  consented  to 
do  the  deed,  and  she  is  to  signal  to  him,  by  striking 
upon  the  bell,  when  all  things  are  ready.  Her  love 
is  ample ;  the  intensity  of  her  vision  has  endowed 
her  with  an  amazing  power  of  will.  Why  Lady 
not  have  her  actually,  when  she  goes  to  assayUie^° 
Duncan's  chamber,  attempt  the  deed  .-*  She  killing. 
must  not  achieve  it;  that  would  make  her  out  a  mon- 
ster. It  will  stir  pity  to  have  her  try.  She  craves 
the  daring  and  firmness  of  a  man.  Why  not  have 
her  borrow  strength,  as  she  has  heard  that  men  some- 
times, in  such  moments,  do .''  So  she  shall  drink 
wine,  in  the  hope  even  yet  to  surprise  her  husband. 
How  she  longs  to  tell  him  that  he  need  not  go,  after 
all,  to  Duncan's  chamber,  that  he  shall  be  king,  as  he 
has  always  wished,  without  effort  of  his  own.  The 
spectacle  of  a  woman  laying  up  for  herself  anguish 
and  perdition  of  soul,  to  save  her  husband  from  the 
consciousness  of  crime,  is  teUing,  and  cannot  be 
spared  from  the  play.  So  we  should  show  Lady 
Macbeth,  with  cheeks  flushed  by  drink,  after  the  in- 
effectual attempt,  at  the  opening  of  the  second  scene. 


208  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

With  Macbeth's  dagger  strokes,  the  Major  Obsta- 
cle disappears.  Malcolm  no  longer  stands  between 
^^    ^,  .      Macbeth  and  the  throne.     Duncan  is  dead, 

The  Major 

Obstacle      and  no  mortal  eye  has  seen  the  murderer 

removed.       ^^  ^-^  ^^^^        j^^^    ^j^^jj   ^^^    j^j^^.g    gg^^^.^ 

of  thanes  learn  of  the  deed  ?  Shall  the  castle  awake 
in  quiet,  and  come  upon  the  horrible  secret  without 
warning  ?  The  tragic  tension  is  too  great  for  such 
delay.  There  is  a  better  way  to  have  Scotland  know. 
The  King's  party  is  large,  and  some  have  been  forced 
to  lodge  outside  the  castle.  Certain  of  these  may  be 
made  to  come  and  arouse  their  people  who  are  within. 
To  keep  the  stage  occupied,  they  must  present  them- 
selves before  Lady  Macbeth  and  her  husband  leave 
,  it.  By  making  Duncan  to  have  proposed 
ing  upon  to  sct  out  early,we  may  have  them  knock  vig- 
thegate.  orously  on  the  castle  gate,  to  wake  the  por- 
ter, before  daylight.  This  will  furnish  the  cUmax  of 
the  scene,  —  Macbeth  half-crazed  and  trembhng,  shut 
up  in  the  castle  with  his  crime,  and  the  world  knock- 
ing and  waiting  to  come  in  from  without. 

To  bring  in  the  world  without  too  great  precipi- 
tancy, the  knocking  must  be  repeated ;  the  porter 
must  not  too  soon  answer  to  the  call.  That  the 
delay  may  be  reasonable,  we  need  only  to  bring  out 
that  the  servants  have  caroused,  on  the  King's 
largess,  till  the  second  cock.  To  give  some  back- 
ground of  diabolism,  we  can  ordain  that  there  has 
been  a  storm,  which  was  spoken  of  as  gathering, 
after  midnight,  in  the  first  scene  of  this  act. 

Of  course  Lady  Macbeth  and  her  husband  have 


DRAMATIC   ART  209 

yet  their  chief  ordeal  to  undergo  ;  they  must  meet 
the  searching  eyes  of  the  King's  thanes,  and  behave 
as  if  wholly  surprised,  and  scandalised,  and  horrified 
at  the  murder.  Of  course  they  cannot  possibly 
escape  suspicion ;  on  the  very  face  of  things  the 
guilt  is  theirs.  No  motive  could  be  conceived  for 
such  action,  on  the  part  of  anybody  else,  in  the 
whole  kingdom.  Neither  Macbeth  nor  his  wife  is  in 
any  sort  of  neurotic  preparation  for  the  coming 
strain.  It  would  not  be  possible  to  have  them  meet 
it  well,  even  if  we  wished.  Our  purpose,  if  we  are 
artistic,  must  be  to  be  true.  If  we  are  true,  we  must 
let  causes  work  out  their  full  conclusion.  Macbeth 
will  be  lamest  here  in  matters  touching  the  King's 
person,  and  the  death  chamber,  which  he  cannot 
bear  to  approach.  He  will  make  his  first  Macbeth's 
mistake  when  he  leads  Macduff  to  the  door,   and  Lady 

,  .  ...  ,  Macbeth's 

by  not  proposmg  to  go  withm,  or  at  least  to  fiist 
knock.  Macduff,  who  is  the  strong  man  blunders. 
of  the  play,  will  remember  this  omission  later,  and 
have  his  opinion  about  what  it  means.  Lady  Mac- 
beth, on  hearing  the  castle  bell,  will  come  out  too 
quickly,  and  so  betray  that  she  has  been  waiting  for 
a  cue.  She  is  ideal  in  her  acting,  when  she  demands 
what  is  going  on,  to  require  such  summons  ;  but  she 
errs  sadly  enough  in  subordinating  her  horror  at  the 
Kiner's  murder   to  the  circumstance  of   its  ^ 

*="  Banquo 

occurring  in  her  house.     The  ringing  of  the  not  awak- 
bell  is  an  excellent  expedient  for  bringing  ^.""^^^f 
in   the   other   characters  immediately,    and 
hurrying  the  scene  forward.     It  serves  especially  to 


210  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

show  that  Banquo  was  not  awaked  by  the  noise, 
but  was  ready  to  start  from  his  more  distant  apart- 
ment when  the  signal  came.  Malcolm  and  Donal- 
bain,  on  the  other  hand,  have  been  certainly  aroused 
from  sleep,  since  from  chambers  next  Duncan's, 
which  are  nearest,  they  come  in  last  of  all.  Other 
guests,  of  course,  besides  those  named  in  the  stage 
directions,  together  with  the  various  servants  of  the 
castle,  have  responded  to  the  summons. 

So  far  matters  have  not  gone  wholly  ill ;  no  disas- 
trous blunders  have  been  committed.  But  the  hard- 
est trials  are  yet  to  come.  To  discuss  and  sift  the 
evidence  concerning  the  author  of  the  crime,  to  give 
testimony  as  household-heads  touching  the  supposed 
safety  of  their  guest,  will  be  taxing  in  the  extreme 
to  both  the  culprits.  But  we  must  not,  with  details, 
prolong  the  scene.  It  can  be  ended  dramatically  by 
a  pair  of  incidents,  epitomising  respectively  the 
resources  as  well  as  weaknesses  of  each  character. 
Macbeth  may  be  made  to  have  killed  the  grooms, 
from  fear  of  their  denials,  when  he  entered  with 
Lennox  the  King's  chamber.  His  confession  of  this 
will  bring  upon  him  Macduff's  excited  and  cruel 
question,  — 

Wherefore  did  you  so? 

There  will  be  no  standing  before  that.  Any  attempt 
to  answer  will  be  sheer  ruin.  The  reader  must  at 
Macbeth's  ^"^^^  diviue  how  Macduff  will  be  disposed 
fatal  toward  the  kingship  that  is  coming.     Mac- 

beth's idiotic  explanation  will  make  the  thanes 
look   significantly    at    each   other.       Lady    Macbeth 


DRAMATIC  ART  211 

will  have  doubtless  planned,  at  some  moving  point  or 
other   in   these    proceedings,    to  feign  a  swoon.     It 
will   arrest   the   contempt    somewhat,  and  help   her 
husband,  to  do  it  now,  —  or  is  she  genuinely  aghast 
and  prostrated  at  what  she  has  seen  in  the  ^ad 
thanes'    faces  ?      To   show   how  the    lords  Macbeth 
regard  her,  and  how  far  Macbeth  is  from  "hTthLes^ 
assuming   that   the   swoon  is  real,  we  can  or  Mac- 
make  these  chivalrous  lords,  as  well  as  her 
husband,    refrain    from    lending   assistance    as    she 
falls.     The    climax  may  be  strengthened  by  having 
Macduff  and  Banquo,  whose  conviction  is  strongest, 
bid   the   attendants,    somewhat  demonstratively  and 
patronisingly,  "  Look  to  the  lady." 

When  the  two  obstacles  are  on  the  reader's  mind, 
he  loses  sight  of  the  maximum  consummation. 
After  they  are  resolved,  it  looms  again  to  view. 
The  audience  will  now  expect  and  demand  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  promise  with  which  the  play  began. 
It  will  not  be  best  to  permit  the  sight,  at  present,  of 
Macbeth  crowned.  A  fourth  scene  can  adjust  the 
murder  to  the  perspective  of  the  times,  and  make 
known  that  the  sovereignty  will  fall  certainly  upon 
Macbeth. 

The  new  action  with  which  the  Third  Act  always 
begins,  is  invariably  of  moment,  and  shapes  ,^^^.^,g,j^ 
the  course  of  the  plot.     It  will  be  wise  as  and  Lady 
well  as  fitting,   now,  whatever  may  be  the  ^^'^^^^^ 

o'  '  J  appear 

outcome   of    the   new   rule,  to   show   Mac-  crowned 

beth  as  King,  and  Lady  Macbeth  as  Queen. 

If   their  usurpation  is   not  to   be  successful,  it  will 


212  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

be  best  to  keep  their  crowns  from  sight  for  the 
remainder  of  the  play.  The  plot,  as  found  in  Hol- 
inshed,  requires  that  Banquo  be  cut  off  from  all  pos- 
sible interference  with  Macbeth's  success.  We  can 
engage  the  sympathies  of  the  audience  for  Macbeth, 
as  against  his  enemy  and  rival,  by  making  Banquo 
ready  to  conspire  against  the  sovereignty  just  set  up. 
His  late  disloyalty  toward  Duncan  will  have  pre- 
pared for  this.  The  audience  expects  Macbeth  to 
enter,  at  once,  upon  a  brilliant  and  strong  career. 
It  will  wish  that  he  assert  himself,  in  this  case,  with 
severity  and  speed.  If  we  show  Banquo  secretive, 
evasive,  with  reference  to  his  plans  and  movements, 
on  Macbeth's  inquiring,  it  will  be  tantamount  to  proof 
that  he  is  dangerous.  This  will  insure  Macbeth  war- 
rant to  proceed  against  him  by  whatever  means. 

We  were  not  much  interested  in  Macbeth,  at  the 
beginning,  on  his  own  account.  The  interference  of 
the  Witches  aroused  us.  On  learning  something  of 
Macbeth's  self-respect  and  dread  of  evil-doing,  we 
found  our  interest  in  him  very  much  enhanced.  Lady 
Macbeth's  sublime  devotion  and  self-sacrifice  have  won 
our  sympathy,  at  least  dramatically,  for  her  and  for 
her  cause.  Such  a  woman  and  such  a  husband  should 
survive  ;  so  grandly  endowed  with  spiritual  possibili- 
ties, they  should  come  to  their  best  of  usefulness  and 
strength.  This  is  the  maximum  consummation  that  we 
always  crave  for  characters  discerned  as  capable  of 
living  the  largest  and  highest  quantum  of  existence. 
But  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth  will  not  survive, 
since  they  have  sought  the  largest  living  on  impossi- 


DRAMATIC  ART  2l3 

ble  conditions  ;  and  the  end  is  tragedy.    But  the  trag- 
edy does  not  consist  in  the  mere  fact  of  death  or 
suffering ;  it  is  because  of  the  promise  and  ^, 
the  possibilities  that  come  thus  to  naught.   Macbeth 
It  consists  in  death  or  suffering  wholly  at  '^^''^g^'^y- 
variance  with  the  proper  spiritual  desert  of  the  victim. 
The  author  has  expected  from  the  first  to  disappoint 
us  ;  the  nature  of  the  theme  materials  compels  it. 

To  develop  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth  within  the 
limits  of  a  play,  requires  swift  changes.  The  mur- 
der of  Banquo  may  be  used  to  precipitate  the  issue. 
Nothing  resulted  from  the  death  of  Banquo,  accord- 
ing to  Holinshed,  as  affecting  the  comfort  and  firm- 
ness of  Macbeth's  mind.  We  can  cause  him  to  behave 
in  such  a  way  as  to  furnish  evidence  of  his  guilt  with 
Duncan  ;  we  can  show  him  half  crazed  with  remorse 
and  fear.  When  the  people  of  Scotland  know  that  it 
has  a  self-condemned  ruler,  it  will  cast  him  off.  But 
how  shall  Macbeth  be  made  to  betray  to  them  his 
secret }  He  has  been  made  from  the  beginning  a  man 
much  under  the  control  of  the  finer  sentiments.  Con- 
science, then,  will  be  the  means.  Moreover,  the 
Witches  have  put  Banquo,  as  to  ultimate  rule  in 
Scotland,  far  above  himself.    Macbeth  hates  ,,   ,  ,, . 

'  Macbeth  s 

the  man  who  renders  the  death  of  Duncan  hate  of 
of  no  effect,  with    perfect    hatred.      If   he  ^^"'^''°- 
could  get  at  his  rival,  he  would  strike  him  fiendishly. 
He  must  be  made  to  reach  this  enemy,  by  some  means, 
with  his  own  arm. 

Macbeth  knows  what  it  is  to  take  the  burdens  of 
murder  upon  his  soul.     He  will  naturally  strive,  in 


214  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

this  case,  to  put  the  responsibility  upon  others.  If 
Banquo  has  retainers  who  beheve  that  they  have  been 
wronged  by  their  chief,  he  will  send  for  them.  When 
he  has  persuaded  two  men  of  this  sort  to  undertake 
the  deed,  ostensibly  for  their  own  revenge,  he  will 
not  leave  them  to  execute  it  without  surveillance. 
The  Third  1^"^  what  survcillance  can  there  be  except 
Murderer,  ^js  own .''  He  will  put  on  disguiscs,  and 
join  the  assassins  as  a  Third  Murderer.  He  will  have 
spies  follow  Banquo,  to  find  where  he  goes,  whom  he 
meets ;  and  one  of  these  spies  will  indicate,  perhaps 
by  beacon  signal,  the  approximate  arrival  of  their 
victim,  upon  return. 

Thus  Macbeth  will  be  enabled  to  approach  the 
object  of  his  hate,  and  make  the  despatchment  sure. 
•Twenty  ^^  ^^^^  naturally  strike  his  victim,  wherever 
mortal  he  may  reach  him,  many  times.  So  there 
mur  ers.  ^.^  ^^  unsightly  mutilation.  Macbeth  will 
not  dare  betray  his  identity  to  the  other  murderers, 
although  Fleance  should  be  at  once  pursued,  but  will 
return  now  with  them  to  the  palace.  They  will  not, 
of  course,  find  Macbeth, '  to  report  how  much  is  done.* 
Then  the  Third  Murderer  will  order  the  pursuit  of 
Fleance,  and  the  burial  of  Banquo's  body.  Free  now 
from  the  First  and  the  Second  Murderer,  Macbeth 
will  lay  aside  his  disguises,  mingle  with  his  guests,  and 
wait  with  them  ostensibly  for  Banquo's  coming,  but 
really  for  reports  from  the  pursuit  of  Fleance.  Ban- 
quo  was  killed  just  at  dark,  at  seven  o'clock  (cf.  HI. 
i.  42)  or  after.  Three  hours  later  they  will  give  Ban- 
quo  up,  and  his  cover  will  be  removed  from  the  table. 


DRAMATIC  ART  21  5 

How  far  the  audience  is  to  hold  Macbeth  bewitched, 
need  not  be  settled  here.  It  must  premise  merely 
that  the  Witches  lie  in  wait  for  his  soul.  We  Why  Ban- 
need  not  force  the  reader  to  settle  whether  ^^o'^^^"" 

IS  turbaned 

or  not  they  lured  him  to  his  attack  on  Ban-  with  gore. 
quo's  Hfe.  Let  them  take  advantage  merely  of  the 
opportunity  that  they  now  have  to  precipitate  Mac- 
beth to  his  ruin.  The  twenty  gashes  inflicted  in 
frenzy  upon  Banquo's  head  will  have  turbaned  his 
hair  unspeakably  with  gore.  The  Witches  will  raise 
an  apparition,  with  this  head,  boltered  with  blood  and 
{cf.  III.  iv.  79)  brains  perhaps,  as  a  main  feature  of 
fright,  and  make  Macbeth  identify  the  ghastly  specta- 
cle as  his  work.  The  thought  that  this  mutilation 
exists  only  in  the  apparition,  and  not  on  Banquo,  is 
estopped  by  the  testimony  of  the  murderer  (III.  iv.  27) 
who  buried  him.^ 

Turning  to  the  text  of  the  play,  we  see  how  deeply 
and  subtly  the  author  has  planned  for  this  vital  mo- 
ment.    He  has  made  Macbeth  as  timorous    ., 

After  com- 

and  sensitive,  almost,  as  a  woman,  in  order  promising 
that  a  bloody  spectre  of  his  own  butchery  ^^'=^^*^' . 

J       ^  J     the  appari- 

may  be  to  the  uttermost  appalling.     He  has  tion  with- 
presented    Macbeth    as    sleepless  and    half  '^'■^^"* 
crazed,    since   the  preceding  murder.      He  has  put 
Macbeth's  hand  into  Banquo's  killing,  to  insure  the 
mutilation.     He  has  shaped  the  waiting  so  that  Ban- 
quo's place  may  not  remain  unfilled.     Then,  as  Mac- 

1  That  the  audience  may  not  doubt  the  diabolic  origin  of  the  ghost, 
Shakespeare  will  exhibit  it  again,  and  as  unequivocally  the  product  of 
witchcraft,  in  (11.  123,  124)  the  first  scene  of  the  next  act.     Cf.  p.  219. 


2l6  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

beth  in  his  sottish  and  dazed  security  ventures  to 
propose  the  health  of  the  guest  whom  he  has  helped 
to  kill,  he  has  the  witch-raised  apparition  sit  in  Mac- 
beth's  place, — the  sole  one  left  unoccupied.  The 
rest  follows  without  manipulation.  Macbeth  will 
identify  his  bloody  work,  and  blench  at  the  ghost's 
significant  recognition.  Unmanned  at  what  seems  to 
him  the  real  presence  of  Banquo  here,  he  will  make 
compromising  allusions,  supposing  that  all  see  as  he 
sees :  — 

Prithee,  see  there  !     Behold  !     Look  !      Lo !      How  say  you  ? 
Why,  what  care  I  ?     If  thou  canst  nod,  speak  too. 
If  charnel-houses  and  our  graves  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites. 

The  lords  have  probably  not  begun  to  suspect  that 
Macbeth  has  meddled  with  Banquo's  life.  They  will 
The  climax  naturally  suppose  that  the  spectre  which 
of  the  Macbeth  sees  is  Duncan's.    As  soon  as  Mac- 

scene 

beth  sufficiently  betrays  himself,  the  Witches 
will  withdraw  the  apparition.  To  confirm  the  suspi- 
cions of  the  lords,  who  will  spread  the  story  of  Mac- 
beth's  terrors  broadcast,  the  Witches  will  show 
Banquo's  ghost  again,  not  nodding  and  shaking  its 
gory  locks,  but  glaring  and  petrifyingly  terrible. 
Macbeth  will  quail  this  time  more  than  ever.  The 
first  time,  he  forgets  the  horror  as  soon  as  the  appari- 
tion is  out  of  sight.  The  Witches  see  to  it  that  there 
is  no  forgetting  now.  Macbeth  can  be  made  to  ex- 
press surprise  that  his  guests  are  not  stirred  by  the 
sights  that  have  made  him  tremble.     The  lords,  will- 


I 


DRAMATIC   ART  217 

ing  to  entrap  him,  will  ask,  What  sights  ?  Macbeth 
will  have  so  far  forgotten,  for  agony,  that  he  has  a 
secret,  that  he  will  be  about  to  declare,  as  the  merest 
matter  of  course,  what  he  has  seen.  Lady  Macbeth, 
realising  the  jeopardy,  will  drive  away  the  guests,  and 
stop  the  word,  '  Duncan,'  that  she  thinks  he  is  ready 
to  pronounce.  To  make  this  moment  practicable, 
Lady  Macbeth  should  not  know  surely  that  Banquo 
is  despatched,  or  suspect  that  it  is  the  vision  of  a  later 
victim  that  unnerves  her  husband.  Shakespeare  has 
made  Macbeth,  in  Scene  ii  preceding,  keep  from  her 
definite  knowledge  of  his  purpose. 

At  the  middle  of  the  Third  Act,  Shakespeare  de- 
velops the  subjective  climax  of  a  play.    The  real  climax 
comes  near  the  end.      At  the  first  climax  The 
the  author  makes  us  prefigure  the  outcome  ^Hmlxof^ 
of  the  whole.       Our   imaginations    possess  the  piay. 
themselves  of  the  issue,  and  our  sympathies  are  much 
aroused  over  the  fate  that  we  foresee.      When  the 
ghost  appears  the  second  time,  and  we  have  heard 
Macbeth  betray  himself,  we  feel  pretty  confidently 
advised   how  the  piece  will  close.      The   subjective 
climax  not  only  comes  at  the  middle  of  a  play,  but 
coincides  as  here  with  the  climax  of  the  scene. 

After  the  lords  have  gone  home  and  begun  to  talk, 
public  sentiment  will  turn  violently  against  Macbeth. 
A  scene,  here  the  sixth  of  the  act,  must  be  given  to 
show  the  change.  The  First  and  Third  Acts  are  gen- 
erally connected  closely  with  the  ones  following. 
Act  I  is  separated  from  Act  II  by  only  a  few  hours. 
Act   IV  begins   the   day  after   the   banquet.      The 


2l8  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

even-numbered  acts,  on  the  other  hand,  are  followed 
ordinarily  by  longer  intervals.  Act  III  begins  some 
days  after  the  close  of  Act  II.  Act  V  waits  for  the 
news  iff.  p.  223)  from  England. 

The  decline  of  Macbeth  from  his  favour  and  success 
must  be  accelerated.  Within  two  acts  the  end  must 
Macbeth  be  reached.  The  visit  to  the  Witches,  which 
degraded  Macbcth  proposcs  at  the  end  of  the  banquet 
tofhe*^'"^  scene,  can  be  made  of  signal  consequences 
Witches,  to  the  hero.  The  Sisters  have  seemed  pow- 
erful before  ;  they  can  be  shown  repulsive  now.  At 
the  first  meeting,  they  sought  Macbeth;  now  Mac- 
beth seeks  them.  To  save  time,  there  may  be  a 
filthy  cauldron  and  revolting  incantations.  All  the 
influence  of  these  things  will  be  charged  to  Macbeth's 
account.  Were  it  not  necessary  to  advance  quickly, 
less  drastic  means  might  be  chosen.  The  scenes  in 
that  case  would  be  more  numerous  and  prolonged. 

Macbeth  has  undergone  terrible  experiences  result- 
ing from  the  two  murders.  He  will  not  wish  to  mul- 
tiply his  woes.  The  Witches  are  his  guardian  genii ; 
he  will  naturally  turn  to  them,  and  they  will  deceive 
him,  and  allure  him  yet  more  irrevocably  to  his  fall. 
We  have  seen  examples  of  their  power  in  the  air- 
drawn  dagger,  and  the  ghost  of  Banquo,  but  apart 
from  their  visible  agency  and  presence.  They  may 
well  be  made  to  furnish  some  spectacular  proof  of  the 
forces  that  they  can  command.  There  can  be  an  in- 
genious and  telling  exhibition  of  the  diabolic  masters, 
whom  they  serve,  and  whom  the  audience  would  like 
to  see  in  material  shape.     The  prophecy  of  the  Third 


DRAMATIC   ART  219 

Witch  to  Banquo,  —  believed  by  Shakespeare's  public 
to  have  been  fulfilled,  may  be  dramatically  realised 
by  a  stage  device.     Moreover,  those  who  have  failed 
to  trace  the  thread  of  diabolism  to  which  the  pretended 
apparition  of  Banquo  is  attached,  will  be  set  right  by 
seeing  it   again  {cf.  p.  215)  and  as  the  indubitable 
product  of  the  Witches'  power.     The  first  figure  in 
the  show  of  eight  kings  will  be  like  the   spirit   of 
Banquo,  as  it  looked  at  the  great  feast ;  but  The  pre- 
the  figure  that  is  to  represent  Banquo  in  his  gj,"(fs^'|,f 
turn  shall  be  no  less  than  the  blood-boltered  Banquo. 
presence  by  which  Macbeth  has  been  lately  crazed, 
not  this  time  shaking  its  head  and  leering,  but  smiling 
in  a  not  unforgiving  mood. 

Another   step   in   another  scene  will  enact,  from 
Holinshed,  the  butchery  of  Lady  Macduff  and  her 
children.     It  is  needed  to  reduce  still  lower  Another 
the  reader's  enthusiasm  for  his  hero.     The  scene 

11  1  •         r     1  -1  T      •  11     needed  to 

problem  here  is  of  the  simplest.  It  is  well  degrade 
in  a  scene  so  far  on  as  this  one  to  avoid  Macbeth, 
bringing  in  new  characters  alone.  So  we  may  have 
Ross,  as  a  relative  of  Lady  Macduff,  and  commissioned 
by  her  husband  to  tell  of  his  flight  to  England,  con- 
nect the  new  action  with  the  play.  One  of  the  chil- 
dren, the  most  precocious,  will  be  shown  with  the 
mother,  and  the  sympathies  of  the  audience  must  be 
strongly  engaged  for  both.  It  will  be  enough  if  we 
show  the  character  of  the  mother,  through  her  pain 
at  what  she  thinks  is  Macduff's  neglect,  and  exhibit 
the  penetration  of  her  boy  against  her  attempts  to 
mystify  him  about  his  father.     The  lad  may  be  ideal- 


220  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

ised,  at  the  end,  when  the  murderers  come,  by  being 
made  to  attempt  the  role  of  protector  to  his  mother. 
It  will  be  practicable  to  have  the  murderers  appear  in 
hairy  disguises,  such  as  would  make  most  boys,  of 
this  one's  years,  run  to  their  mother's  skirts 
mother,  the  for  rcf ugc.  This  boy  looks  steadily  into  the 
[de^ali^sed  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^  shag-haired  villain,  and  receives 
through  the  the  strokc  of  his  dagger  without  crying,  and 
°^'  proposes  even  to  stay  by  the  murderer  and 

detain  him,  that  his  mother  may  escape.  The  reader 
will  be  forced  thus  to  recognise  how  stalwart  must  be 
the  father  of  such  a  lad,  and  what  have  been  the 
strength  and  daring  of  the  Macduff  family  in  genera- 
tions preceding.  The  effect  of  the  scene  will  cer- 
tainly go  far  toward  effacing  the  qualities  that  have 
seemed  hitherto  admirable  in  Macbeth. 

The  limitations  of  the  theme  and  of  the  plot  be- 
come onerous  now.  The  Duncan  type  of  king,  which 
we  esteemed  so  lightly  and  wished  wiped  out  of  the 
play,  must  be  made  acceptable ;  for  the  crown  shall 
go  to  Malcolm  after  all.  Macbeth  has  lost  much 
favour ;  but  we  are  by  no  means  willing  to  contemplate 
a  second  Duncan,  or  anything  like  a  second  Duncan,  as 
his  successor.  There  is  evidently  much  to  be  done  be- 
fore the  audience  can  bear  the  hint  of  such  an  outcome. 

We  can  do  nothing  here  without  our  master.  Prob- 
ably there  is  no  man  living  who  could  execute  this 
Malcolm  task  in  the  space  of  two  hundred  and  forty 
nate°s^Mac-  ^^^^^-  ^^  opcns  sccuc  iii,  in  which  the 
duff.  work  must  be  done,  just  after  Macduff  has 

told   Malcolm    of    Scotland's    plight.       Macduff   has 


DRAMATIC   ART  221 

taken  for  granted  that  any  rightful  heir  to  the  throne, 
on  listening  to  such  a  tale,  would  see  his  duty  and 
accept  it.  Perhaps  we,  knowing  Malcolm  as  we  do, 
have  not  taken  for  granted  any  such  thing.  He 
must  be  shown  at  first  such  as  we  expect.  More 
than  this,  he  professes  to  be  in  fear  lest  Macduff 
have  come  in  treachery,  as  Macbeth's  tool,  '  to  offer 
up  a  poor  weak  innocent  lamb,  to  appease  an  angry 
god.'  Even  Macduff's  impetuous  enthusiasm  gives 
way  at  this, — 

I  have  lost  my  hopes.     Bleed,  bleed,  poor  country  ! 

The  only  process  by  which  a  character  like  Malcolm's 
may  be  restored  is  a  negative  one.  We  must  discover 
to  our  reader  certain  qualities  that  he  has  supposed 
wanting,  and  lead  him,  through  changing  his  mind 
about  these,  to  change  it  concerning  the  whole  man. 
Malcolm  is  made  to  subordinate  Macduff  by  getting 
him  to  believe  certain  libels  that  he  affirms  upon  him- 
self. He  manages  this  so  sturdily  as  to  arouse  some- 
thing like  detestation  in  Macduff :  — 

Fit  to  govern  ! 

No,  not  to  live.     O  nation  miserable, 

With  an  untitled  tyrant  bloody-scepter'd, 

When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again. 

Since  that  the  truest  issue  of  thy  throne 

By  his  own  interdiction  stands  accurs'd, 

And  does  blaspheme  his  breed?     Thy  royal  father 

Was  a  most  sainted  king.     The  queen  that  bore  thee 

Oftener  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet 

Died  every  day  she  liv'd.     Fare  thee  well ! 

These  evils  thou  repeatest  upon  thyself 

Have  banish' d  me  from  Scotland. 


222  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

To  have  managed  the  stalwart  Macduff  so  easily  and 
strongly,  makes  us  see  something  in  the  man.  The 
Duncan,  of  hint  of  a  monkish,  saintly  nature,  now 
theEdward  (J],   iqS,   ioq)  first  put   forward   to   palliate 

Confessor  ,       r    -i  i      i  i-     i  t^i  • 

type  of  Duncan  s  failure,  helps  not  a  little.  1  his 
^'"S-  is  a  side  of  Duncan's  character  that  has  thus 

far  received  scant  justice  from  the  audience.  The 
type  of  kingship  that  Edward  the  Confessor  is  suc- 
cessfully evincing,  and  the  traditions  of  his  reign, 
since  the  present  scene  is  laid  at  his  very  court,  may 
The  chief  be  levied  on.  Shakespeare  has  a  doctor 
doctor*  ^  come  out  from  the  presence  of  the  king, 
episode.  and  givc  unhesitating  though  reluctant  testi- 
mony—  doctors  are  always  sceptical  about  healers  — 
that  the  King  can  cure.  By  making  Malcolm  take 
up  the  matter,  and  explain  it  fully,  the  author 
manages  to  invest  him  with  something  of  the  dignity 
and  importance  that  belong  to  the  two  kings  some- 
what in  common.  Edward  the  Confessor  was  not 
an  efficient  ruler ;  but  his  goodness,  or  rather  perhaps 
his  piety,  has  considerably  coloured  the  history  of  his 
reign.  Malcolm  comes  away  from  contact  with  his 
prototype  palpably  stronger  and  more  adequate  for 
the  future  that  is  before  him. 

Malcolm,  for  the  next  thing,  must  be  made  more 
tolerable  and  sufficient  as  a  martial  figure.  The 
Malcolm  author  must  undo  the  impressions,  of  callow 
amended  ^^^  ineffectual  valour,  that  he  gave  us  on 
martially,  first  presenting  (I.  ii.  3-5)  the  character. 
Macduff  does  not  yet  know  what  has  happened  to 
his  family  since  his  flight.      Ross  can   be  made  of 


DRAMATIC  ART  223 

similar  service  to  him  as  to  his  wife  before  her  fate 
reached  her,  and  will  attract  less  attention,  in  a  re- 
peated role,  than  a  new  messenger.  He  can  be 
supposed  to  have  been  informed  against,  for  going 
to  Macduff's  castle,  and  to  be  fleeing  now  to  England 
from  Macbeth's  wrath.  The  heaviness  of  the  blow 
prostrates  Macduff,  and  Malcolm  in  rallying  him 
gets  himself  into  the  royal  superiority  which  we  are 
not  unwilling  that  he  should  assume.  Here  is  a 
delicate  moment.  We  are  ready  to  change  The  audi- 
sides.      Macduff's  new,  personal  motive  of  ^"*=^  s°^^ 

.   .  .  over  to 

vengeance,  m  addition   to    his   former   one  MacdufTs 
of  patriotism,  brings  us  over.     The  mention  ^"^*- 
(11.  190-192)  of  old  Siward, — 

An  older  and  a  better  soldier  none 
That  Christendom  gives  out,  — 

as  fighting  under  Malcolm,  already  reenforced  by 
Macduff's  strength  and  zeal,  makes  us  accept  the 
stripling  prince,  without  well  knowing  what  we  do, 
as  the  coming  man  of  Scotland. 

As  was  said  earlier,  between  the  even  acts  and  the 
odd  ones  following,  when  the  plot  materials  allow,  are 
placed  the  longest  intervals.  The  Fourth  The  Fourth 
Act  is  typically  a  preparing-time ;  it  has  ^.^^Y^^' 
shown  us  here  the  massing  and  marshalling  time. 
of  the  forces  that  shall  overthrow  Macbeth.  The 
Fifth  Act  need  not  wait  until  Malcolm  and  his  Eng- 
lish troops  arrive.  At  word  that  they  are  coming, 
we  can  make  the  Scottish  nobles  rise,  and  draw  Mac- 
beth into  the  field  against  them.     Then  Lady  Mac- 


224  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

beth,  foreseeing  the  retribution  and  the  end,  will 
begin  to  walk  in  her  sleep.  Macbeth,  before  he 
leaves  her,  will  send  his  court  physician  to  treat  her 
malady.  Through  occasion  of  the  doctor's  presence, 
we  may  enable  the  audience  to  study  her  again,  and 
know  what  sufferings  she  is  undergoing.  The  scene, 
though  great  in  possibilities,  is  not  difficult  to  con- 
struct, and  will  be  easily  intelligible  to  the  reader. 
The  climax  Of   course   Shakcspcare's   climax    of    '  the 

watking'^"  s^^ll  o^  b^oo^  stil^  could  never  have  been 
scene.  reached  by  another  workman.  How  much 
it  tells  of  an  exquisite  nature,  born  for  the  best  and 
noblest  living,  and  unequal  utterly  to  the  burdens  of 
remorse !  Lady  Macbeth  believed  that,  might  she 
but  make  her  husband  king,  she  could  pay  the  price. 
But  she  has  lost  her  soul,  and  her  husband's  love, 
and  all  her  peace  of  mind ;  and  she  has  dreaded  the 
vengeance  of  Scotland  so  poignantly  as  to  have  be- 
come virtually  insane. 

Macbeth,  on  hearing  of  the  approach  of  the  Eng- 
lish army,  withdraws  from  the  campaign  against  his 
revolted  thanes  to  Dunsinane,  where  Lady  Macbeth 
is  staying,  and  intrenches  himself.  How  the  prophecy 
of  the  Witches'  prophecy  is  fulfilled,  how  he  goes  out 
in  frenzy  and  fights  after  all  in  the  open  field,  it  is 
not  necessary  to  treat.  The  time  for  the  consumma- 
tion is  reached ;  but  the  conclusion  that  the  reader 
TheObsta-  sighted  and  coveted,  at  the  beginning,  will 
Consum-  ^  ^^  denied.  Whether  a  play  is  tragedy  or 
mation.  comedy,  does  not  depend  solely  upon  the  out- 
come, but  is  a  resultant  in  which  the  Major  and  the 


DRAMATIC  ART  225 

Minor  Obstacle  are  palpable  factors.  The  two  obsta- 
cles in  the  piece  just  analysed  were  each  resolved  in 
a  manner  that  we  approved,  that  is,  comedially. 
In  spite  of  all,  the  play  has  turned  out  a  tragedy. 
Of  course,  the  explanation  Hes  in  the  fact  that  we 
were  duped,  through  the  author's  acquaintance  with 
the  springs  of  feeling,  into  a  dramatic  demand  for 
Macbeth's  success  that  was  really  at  variance  with 
our  principles.  After  the  author  had  captured  our 
sympathies,  he  let  the  inevitable  consequences  of  his 
hero's  action  work  themselves  out.  The  end  was  not 
at  all  affected  by  our  consenting  to  Macbeth's  crimes. 
Some  good  people  have  held  that  Shakespeare  shaped 
the  piece  as  we  find  it  because  he  was  a  wicked  man, 
and  wished  evil,  like  what  Macbeth  attempted,  every- 
where to  prevail.  We  are  pretty  certain,  for  our 
part,  that  he  did  what  he  did  because  he  had  to  make 
a  play,  probably  on  King  James's  requisition,  out  of 
the  Macbeth  materials.  The  play  could  not  have 
been  made  if  the  reader  was  to  be  devoid  of  sympa- 
thy all  the  way  through  Macbeth's  career. 

It  will  be  helpful,  at  this  point,  to  compare  the  con- 
struction of  the  plays  that  have  been  examined  with  this 
one.  In  Cymbeline  both  the  Major  and  the  Compari- 
Minor  Obstacle  were  encountered  in  scene  iv  ^°^^°^|^'^'^' 
of  the  First  Act.  We  should  have  thought,  Cymbeiine. 
perhaps,  that  the  Queen's  schemes  are  the  chief 
obstruction  that  has  prevented  the  course  of  true 
love  from  running  smoothly.  This,  indeed,  is  true ; 
but  since  the  Queen's  opposition  only  ceases  with  her 
death,  almost  at  the  end,  no  use  can  be  made  of  it  in 
Q 


226  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

the  mechanics  of  the  plot.  The  obstacles,  techni- 
cally so  called,  must  be  presented  and  do  their  work 
before  the  close  of  the  First  Act. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Shakespeare  does  not  arouse 
us  over  the  Queen's  ambition  for  her  son  in  the  same 
degree  to  which  he  stirs  us  by  the  obstacles  in  Mac- 
beth. We  somehow  find  ourselves  reposing  in  a  sort 
of  faith  that  the  author  will  not  suffer  Imogen,  so  far 
as  her  father  and  Cloten  are  concerned,  to  come  to 
harm.  But  when  we  are  introduced  to  lachimo,  in 
The  Maor  ^cene  iv,  and  learn  his  wish  to  possess  the 
Obstacle  in  ring  that  Posthumus  is  wearing,  the  case  is 
lac  imo.  different.  Knowing  his  lago  nature,  we  are 
in  very  lively  concern  lest  he  procure  some  means  of 
compromising  Imogen  to  her  husband.  The  chance 
or  probability  of  this  misfortune  is  the  Major  Obstacle 
for  the  present  play,  and  it  proceeds  from  lachimo 
alone.  As  the  scene  evolves  Posthumus's  consent  to 
commend  lachimo  to  his  wife,  we  become  anxious 
lest  Imogen  unwittingly  afford  the  villain  some  op- 
portunity to  achieve  evidence  against  her.  This  fresh 
The  Minor  conccrn,  which  grows  acute  on  the  arrival  of 
Obstacle  in  lachimo,  or  at  the  beginning  of  his  interview 
mogen.  y^\\}^  Imogen,  is  the  Minor  Obstacle ;  and  it 
proceeds  from  Imogen's  nature  almost  wholly.  It  is 
resolved,  of  course,  when  lachimo  secures  Imogen's 
consent  to  receive  the  trunk.  We  had  hoped  that 
lachimo  would  not  succeed  in  gulling  Imogen  into 
any  confidence  in  his  words  or  wishes.  But  this 
obstacle  is  resolved  tragically,  and  the  First  Act 
closes  forthwith.     The  Major  Obstacle  is  likewise  re- 


DRAMATIC  ART  22/ 

solved  tragically  when  we  see  lachimo  possess  him- 
self of  the  bracelet,  in  the  second  scene  of  the  Second 
Act.  The  play,  however,  ends  comedially  in  accord- 
ance with  the  worth  of  the  heroine  and  the  eternal 
fitness  of  things,  yet  seems  not  to  have  been  regarded 
by  the  author  as  properly  a  comedy.  It  stands  last, 
in  the  Folio  of  1623,  in  the  list  of  tragedies.  Re- 
membering the  proofs,  found  lately  in  our  Cymbeiine 
study  of  Shakespeare's  partiality  for  this  ^  tragedy, 
heroine,  we  can  scarcely  wonder.  Imogen  is  of  no 
such  heroism  as  befits  her  to  endure  the  burdens  of 
shame  and  sorrow  that  are  laid  upon  her.  The  favour- 
able issue  of  the  plot  does  not  fully  make  amends. 
So  the  play  may  be  called  a  tragedy. 

In  The  Winter's  Tale  there  is  no  technical  question 
about  the  obstacles.  The  chief  hinderance  to  the 
royal  and  domestic  fehcity  of  Hermione  and  her  hus- 
band is  unmistakably  the  husband's  jealousy.  We 
hope  it  will  be  lifted  before  alienation  ensues,  and 
before  the  matter  has  become  a  public  scan-  Obstacles 
dal.  We  encounter  this  obstacle,  which  is  \"y„^/^.j 
the  Major  one,  before  Polyxenes's  answer  to  lau. 
Hermione  is  reached.  After  Polyxenes  concludes  to 
stay,  in  the  face  of  troubles  that  he  must  know  he  is 
intensifying,  we  are  exercised  over  the  prospect  of 
further  mischief.  In  the  week  that  must  now  be 
added  to  his  nine  months'  visit,  how  shall  he  escape 
numberless  occasions,  like  these  we  have  just  wit- 
nessed, of  kindling  the  rage  of  Leontes .-'  Even  his 
presence  here,  presumed  to  be  due  to  Hermione's 
attractions,  is  dangerous  to  the  welfare  of  the  king- 


228  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

dom.  Thus  Polyxenes,  in  his  person,  as  well  as  in 
the  things  he  may  do  unwittingly;  furnishes  the  Minor 
Obstacle. 

As  has  been  earlier  noted,  there  are  properly  two 
new  situations,  each  amounting  in  importance  almost 
to  a  scene,  before  the  close  of  the  First  Act.  The 
first  of  these  begins  at  1.  209,  and  is  devoted  to  the 
evolution  of  Camillo's  feigned  consent  to  murder 
Polyxenes.  At  1.  364  the  second  of  these  situations 
is  set  up  :  Polyxenes  is  made  to  enter  and  find  out 
from  Camillo  the  King's  purpose.  It  is  necessary  that 
the  Minor  Obstacle  should  be  resolved  tragically. 
Hermione  must  be  tried ;  and  to  that  end  Leontes's 
jealousy  must  blaze  forth.  Polyxenes  must  furnish 
the  occasion  ;  Hermione  cannot.  The  least  costly 
of  all  possible  expedients  will  be  to  make  Polyxenes 
run  away,  secretly,  and  as  Leontes  will  think,  guiltily, 
from  the  Sicilian  court. 

The  King  will  at  once  of  course  accuse  Hermione, 
and  the  disgraceful  news  will  be  spread  throughout 
the  kingdom.  Then  the  Major  Obstacle  also  will 
have  been  tragically  resolved.  The  place  where  it 
The  Win  '^^  rcsolvcd  is  the  second  situation  in  the 
ter's  Tale  a  Sccond  Act.  The  author  does  not  exalt  the 
come  y.  a^^ack  of  Lcontes  upon  his  wife  into  a  spe- 
cific scene ;  it  is  too  dismal.  But  Hermione's  pain 
and  suffering  are  much  less  than  her  husband's.  She 
is  stronger  than  Imogen ;  she  is  more  heroic  and  less 
domestic.  So  Shakespeare  seems  to  hold  that  the 
redemption  of  Leontes  and  the  restoration  of  Perdita, 
at  the  end,  overweigh  the  pain  they  cost,  hence  enters 


DRAMATIC   ART  229 

the  play  as  comedy.     It  stands  last  in  the  list  of  come- 
dies in  the  great  Folio. 

In  Romeo  and  Juliet  the  maximum  consummation 
rises  in  our  imagination  as  soon  as  Juliet  is  shown. 
Here  is  the  affinity  of  the  hero ;  we  wish  The  obsta- 
that  Romeo  find  her,  and  recognise  her  rare,  ^^^j"  ^„^ 
strange  worth,  and  win  her  to  himself.  But  Juliet. 
there  is  the  enmity  between  the  houses  —  no  insig- 
nificant Major  Obstacle,  certainly.  Romeo  is  to  see 
Juliet,  through  the  opportunity  of  a  mask,  at  her 
father's  house.  As  the  moment  approaches,  a  new 
concern  takes  hold  of  us.  Will  not  Romeo  fail, 
from  his  abnormal  and  distant  worship  of  Rosaline, 
to  discern  Juliet's  nature ;  and  will  not  Juliet,  fancy- 
free,  miss  the  meaning  of  Romeo's  eyes  and  voice  ^ 
This  minor  anxiety  gives  way  when  we  hear  Romeo 
say  and  Juliet  say  what  feelings  have  been  stirred  in 
each.  With  these  somewhat  oracular  avowals  the 
Minor  Obstacle  is  raised  comedially,  and  the  First 
Act  ends. 

We  have  realised  already,  in  some  measure,  what 
the  enmity  of  two  great  houses  must  have  meant,  in 
the  fourteenth  century,  to  the  hopes  of  a  Juliet  and  a 
Romeo.  They  may  well  pause  and  count  the  cost. 
The  fiery  Capulet  will  cast  out  his  daughter,  per- 
haps strike  her  dead,  when  he  shall  hear ;  that  Juliet 
knows  right  well.  By  making  us  understand,  in  the 
first  scene  of  Act  II,  how  indifferent  Romeo  is  to 
the  claims  of  the  Montagues,  the  author  centres  the 
Major  Obstacle  in  his  heroine.  The  beautiful  reso- 
lution of  it  that  comes  speedily  from  her,  we  know 


230  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

something  about  already.  But  there  can  be  no 
effect,  from  the  lifting  of  these  obstacles,  in  miti- 
gation of  the  conclusion,  which  is  of  the  deepest 
tragedy. 

The  central  climax  in  these  plays  is  definitely  con- 
ceived, and  falls,  as  it  should,  near  the  middle  of 
The  each  Third  Act  and  of  the  piece.     In  Cym- 

ciimaxir  bcHue  we  recognise  the  influences  of  it  where 
these  plays.  (III.  iv.  1 43-1 56)  Imogen  acccpts  the  plan  of 
leaving  Britain  for  Italy  in  disguise.  In  The  Winter's 
Tale  we  find  it  (III.  ii.  154-203)  in  the  King's  contri- 
tion and  Paulina's  over-rhetorical  protestations  that 
the  Queen  is  dead.  In  Romeo  and  Juliet  the  central 
climax  culminates  in  the  fourth  scene  of  the  middle  act. 

There  are  other  principles  of  dramatic  construction 
that  Shakespeare  divined  and  served  himself  with  in 
his  maturest  work ;  but  the  scope  of  the  present  book 
will  not  include  further  inquiry  of  this  kind.  We  are 
trying  merely  to  get  a  provisional  and  convincing 
view  of  Shakespeare's  importance  as  a  literary  fig- 
ure. We  have  space  left  but  to  show  that  his  genius 
Novels  was  all-penetrating,  and  that  his  principles 
constructed  were  Universal.  It  was  said  some  pages 
speare's  back  that  the  novel  may  be  looked  upon  as 
plan.  ^j-^  extended  drama,  the  chapters  answering 

to  scenes.  The  plan  by  which  English  and  Ameri- 
can writers  of  fiction  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature 
in  these  days  is  the  same  essentially  as  we  have  just 
discovered  in  our  consideration  of  Macbeth.  Shake- 
speare was,  perhaps,  unaware  of  his  processes  and 
made  for  himself  no  rules,  but  his  tact  and  penetra- 


DRAMATIC  ART  23 1 

tion  never  failed  to  supply  him  with  the  vital  points, 
even  in  the  most  refractory  material.  Almost  at  the 
beginning  of  his  twenty  years  of  playwright  service, 
as  early,  at  least,  as  the  completion  of  the  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  he  had  fixed  the  literary  norm  that  the  slowly 
evolving  novel  of  the  nineteenth  century  proves  to 
have  merely  reproduced. 

In  the  typical  novel  of  the  day  we  find  the  fit 
conclusion  brought  before  the  consciousness  of  the 
reader,  to  arouse  his  interest,  relatively  as  early  as 
in  the  plays  just  studied.  In  Richard  Carvel  this  is 
done  in  the  second  chapter :  we  hope  that  nothing 
will  come  between  Richard  and  his  grandfather,  that 
Richard  may  win  Dorothy,  and  fall  heir  to  Richard 
the  Hall.  Of  the  obstacles  recognised,  the  c<^'^'^- 
lesser  one  centres  in  Dorothy ;  she  is  wilful,  and 
may  not  care  for  Richard.  This  obstacle  is  removed 
before  the  end  of  Chapter  XI,  which  in  dramatic 
form  would  close  Act  I.  Chapter  XI  stops  with 
page  1 15,  a  little  past  the  first  fifth  of  the  whole  novel. 
The  Major  Obstacle  is  plainly  our  fear  of  Grafton's 
envy,  and  it  is  comfortably  resolved  in  Chapter  XV. 
The  middle  chmax  falls  in  Chapter  XXV,  where 
Dolly  comes  to  the  prison.  The  whole  seems  to 
have  been  written  in  the  development  of  a  dramatic 
outline,  such  as  Shakespeare  would  have  conceived 
from  the  same  material,  and  expanded  into  a  play  of 
thirty-five  scenes  or  more. 

In  Scott's  Qiicntin  Durward,  which  is  a  good  ex- 
ample of  the  earlier  romantic  novels,  we  conceive  and 
covet  the   conclusion   before   finishing  Chapter  IV. 


232  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

The  first  chapter  of  the  volume,  like  Scott's  first 
Quentin  chapters  generally,  is  a  mere  prologue  of 
Durward.  explanations,  and  should  not  be  counted. 
Evidently  the  young  woman  of  the  turret  chamber  is 
of  rank ;  we  wish  the  hero  to  speed  with  her,  and  to 
get  into  circumstances  where  he  may  conquer  a  place 
and  name  worthy  of  her  and  of  himself.  The  first 
obstacle  is  Quentin's  unwillingness  to  take  service, 
which  is  his  evident  opportunity.  This  Minor  is 
resolved  at  the  end  of  Chapter  VI,  where  the  hero 
has  his  option  of  considering  himself  enrolled  in 
Lesly's  retinue,  or  of  being  hanged.  Here  the  First 
Act  of  a  dramatised  Qjientin  Durward  would  end, 
some  dozen  pages  short  of  the  first  fifth  of  the  vol- 
ume proper.  The  Major  Obstacle  is  our  concern  lest, 
in  taking  service  about  Plessis-les-Tours,  he  shall  be 
shut  away  from  the  fair  lady,  with  no  chance  of 
wooing  her,  or  of  recommending  himself  specifi- 
cally and  personally  to  the  King.  The  discovery, 
in  Chapter  VIII,  that  Maitre  Pierre,  who  might 
keep  Quentin  from  a  free  career,  is  no  less  than 
Louis  himself,  and  means  to  keep  the  youth  about 
his  person  in  a  post  of  trust,  reheves  the  reader. 
Of  course,  to  modern  readers,  the  identity  of  Pierre 
ceases  to  be  a  secret  several  chapters  earher,  but 
Scott  did  not  apparently  intend  or  expect  his  public 
to  anticipate  this  turn.  The  subjective  climax  falls 
in  Chapter  XXI. 

In  Meredith's  Evan  Harrington,  a.  novel  of  standard 
quality,  pubhshed  in  1861,  we  find  the  same  points 
and   proportions   rather    more   accurately   observed. 


DRAMATIC  ART  233 

The  consummation,  sighted  fully  in  Chapters  II  and 
IV,  involves  on  Evan's  part  the  saving  of  Eva7i  Har- 
his  father's  honour,  and  the  winning  of  Rose  *'^"^^''"- 
Jocelyn.  The  first  of  our  misgivings  or  "  obstacles  " 
is  the  thought  of  Evan's  refusing  to  shoulder  the 
burden  of  his  father's  debts.  This  is  removed  at  the 
close  of  Chapter  IX,  and  at  the  end  almost  exactly  of 
the  first  fifth  of  the  work.  The  Major  Obstacle  is 
our  concern  lest  Evan,  by  his  resolve  to  manage  his 
father's  shop,  be  separated  forever  from  the  oppor- 
tunity of  recommending  himself  to  Rose.  This  is 
removed,  by  the  machinations  of  the  Countess,  at 
the  cricket  game  in  Chapter  XIII.  The  subjective 
climax  comes  at  the  middle  of  the  volume,  where 
Rose,  frightened  and  humbled  at  Evan's  hurt,  is 
ready  to  brave  all  for  his  sake.  Mr.  Meredith  seems 
aware  of  the  dramatic  nature  of  his  plot,  since  at  the 
opening  of  Chapter  XXXVIII  he  announces  that  he 
has  just  completed  the  Fourth  Act  of  his  comedy,  as 
indeed,  according  to  Shakespeare's  scheme,  he  has. 

In  these  novels  we  have  again  illustrated  that  the 
ultimate  purpose  and  meaning  of  a  piece  of  literature, 
whether  play  or  novel,  are  hkely  to  be  far  ultimate 
removed  from  the  outward  happenings  or  meaning  of 
aspects  of  the  plot.  Ric/iai'd  Caniel  is  not 
merely  a  novel  of  adventure,  but  mainly  exalts,  in  a 
somewhat  epic  way,  the  cavaHer  period  in  Maryland 
history.  Quentin  Durivard\\2i5  not  written  to  furnish 
a  romance  of  Quentin  and  Lady  Isabelle,  but  to  make 
us  acquainted  with  the  character  of  Louis  XI  of 
France.     The  story  of  the  course  of  their  true  loves 


234  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

was  told  chiefly  to  float  the  details  of  the  narrative. 
In  Evan  Harrington  the  real  purpose  is  to  deliver  a 
blow  at  caste.  Rose,  lovely  as  she  is,  counts  for 
much  less  than  the  hero  does,  being  used  as  a  means 
of  measuring  to  us  Evan's  heroism,  and  manliness, 
and,  as  he  considers  it,  his  honour.  That  he  may  be 
true  to  his  family  and  himself,  he  gives  Rose  up.  It 
is  a  love-story,  to  be  sure,  but  this  kind  of  plot  is 
chosen  mainly  to  insure  a  proper  personal  interest 
in  the  hero  in  whom  the  principle  is  to  be  worked 
out. 

Other  forms  of  literature  are  builded  upon  the  same 
fundamental  plan  as  typical  novels,  and  the  plays 
Tenn  son's  *^^  Shakespcare's  school.  TJie  Princess  of 
The  Tennyson  is  constructed  like  Macbeth  except 

incess.  ^j^^^  there  are  seven  parts  or  acts  instead  of 
five.  The  consummation  is,  of  course,  the  union  of 
Ida  and  the  Prince.  Two  obstacles  are  used  in  work- 
ing out  the  plot,  —  the  aversion  of  the  Princess  to  men, 
which  is  the  Major,  and  the  escapade  of  the  invasion 
and  the  disguises,  which  is  the  Minor.  The  Minor  is 
resolved  comedially ;  Psyche  detects  the  trick  in 
time,  and  no  harm  comes  from  it  to  the  Prince's 
cause.  The  First  Act  ends  with  Part  II.  The 
second  scene  of  the  Second  Act  centres  in  the  invi- 
tation to  go  geologising,  which  resolves  the  Major 
Obstacle.  The  Princess  is  not  indifferent  to  the 
Prince  nor  even  to  his  ambassadresses  ;  else  she  would 
scarcely  take  her  gold  plate  along,  and  her  satin  tent, 
to  do  honour  to  her  freshman  guests.  The  middle  of 
the  Third  Act  falls,  of  course,  in  Part  IV,  where  the 


DRAMATIC   ART  235 

Princess   is   rescued   by   the    Prince.      Part   VII    is 
Act  V.     Act  IV  comprises  Parts  V  and  VI. 

The  tendency  in  modern  literary  evolution  is  clearly 
toward  condensation.  The  novel  is  merging  into 
the  short  story;  dramatic  monologues  do  The  short 
the  work  of  five-act  plays.  Even  here  the  ^'"""y- 
groundwork  of  obstacles,  or  the  involving  of  the  plot, 
appears  to  be  preserved.  In  novels  as  long  as  Quo 
Vadis  there  is  the  same  proportioning,  there  are  the 
same  vital  points.  It  would  be  interesting  to  make 
comparisons  in  plays  and  novels  outside  of  English, 
if  time  could  be  spared.  The  famous  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac,  except  that  the  maximum  consummation 
is  not  sighted  till  the  end  of  the  First  Act,  is  con- 
structed upon  Shakespeare's  plan.  There  is  as  much 
reward  in  studying  the  construction  of  plays,  in  the 
light  of  common  principles,  as  in  discerning  and  real- 
ising their  ultimate  ideas.  By  searching  out  these 
things,  the  humblest  reader  may  concern  his  mind 
with  the  deepest  problems  of  art  and  message  that 
authors  devote  their  days  and  nights  to  solving. 


VI 

SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN 

We  have  gained  some  impressions  concerning 
Shakespeare  as  an  artist  and  author,  and  shall  prob- 
ably  be  interested  in  learning  what  may  be 
of  Shake-  told  about  him  biographically  as  a  man. 
speare.  Unfortunately  we  are  permitted  to  know  far 
less  of  his  personal  than  of  his  literary  life.  Not 
even  the  date  of  his  birth  has  been  preserved.  In 
the  records  of  Stratford  parish  it  is  shown  that  a 
baby  boy  was  baptized  Wilham  Shakespeare  on  the 
26th  of  April,  1564.  From  this  it  has  been  inferred 
that  the  birth  date  must  have  been  the  23d  or  the 
22d,  but  we  cannot  be  sure.  The  register  itself  is 
but  the  copy  of  a  perished  original,  and  shows  no 
entry  earlier  than  1558. 

The  first  mention  of  the  great  poet  is  thus  perpet- 
uated, not  inappropriately,  in  formal  Latin,  —  Guiel- 
mus  filius  JoJiannes  Shakspere.  The  name  of  the 
mother,  according  to  the  custom  of  registers,  does 
not  appear.  But  it  is  altogether  likely  that,  could  the 
poet's  life  be  told  completely,  the  mother  would  figure 
not  less  prominently  than  the  father.  Great  men  not 
seldom  derive  their  strength  from  the  mother's  side. 
It  has  been  claimed  that  John  Shakespeare's  wife  was 
of   Celtic  stock,   and  this  would  be   agreeable   and 

236 


I 


SHAKESPEARE  THE  MAN  237 

illuminating  to  know,  if  it  could  be  proved.  A  dis- 
trict of  Warwickshire  had  for  many  generations 
belonged  to  a  family  of  Ardens,  with  whom  the 
attempt  has  been  made  to  connect  the  poet's  mother. 
Our  first  knowledge  of  Shakespeare's  mother  in 
her  home  is  derived,  like  most  of  our  information 
about  the  family,  from  documents  and  rec-  ghake 
ords.  Among  the  earliest  entries  in  the  speare's 
Stratford  register  we  learn  of  the  birth  and  ™°  ^^' 
death  of  two  baby  daughters.  Our  first  glimpse  of 
the  young  mother  is  a  glimpse  of  grief ;  and  this  cir- 
cumstance of  her  losing  her  first  children  does  not 
present  her  to  our  imagination  as  of  large  presence 
or  conspicuous  physical  strength.  Her  other  chil- 
dren, including  the  great  William,  with  one  exception, 
were  not  long-lived.  The  marriage  of  John  Shake- 
speare and  Mary  Arden  is  not  of  record  at  Aston 
Cantlowe  church,  where  it  is  supposed  to  have  oc- 
curred, nor  elsewhere  so  far  as  known.  Thomas 
Cromwell's  injunction  to  the  clergy,  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  VI H,  to  keep  registers,  seems  not  to  have  been 
heeded  in  Stratford  or  the  parishes  round  about. 
Twenty  years  after,  in  1558,  on  the  accession  of 
Elizabeth,  the  order  was  enforced  with  strictness. 
This  was  in  season  to  admit  the  record  of  the  little 
sisters  and  their  famous  brother,  but  not  the  marriage 
of  their  parents.  It  is,  however,  almost  certain  that 
this  marriage  took  place  in  1557.  Robert  Arden,  the 
bride's  father,  died  in  December  of  1556;  and  it 
would  seem  from  the  will,  dated  a  few  days  earlier, 
that  his  favourite  daughter  Mary  was  not  married, 


238  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

or  yet  contracted,  at  that  time.  On  the  15th  of  Sep- 
tember, 1558,  according  to  the  Stratford  register,  her 
first  child,  Joan  Shakespeare,  was  baptized. 

Perhaps  Mary  Arden  would  not  have  married  so 
speedily  had  her  father's  life  been  spared.  Robert 
Shake  Arden  is  believed  to  have  been  the  landlord 
speare's  of  John  Shakcspcarc's  father.  When  an 
^'  ^^'  heiress  weds  a  man  of  the  tenant  class, 
other  things  equal,  it  is  not  because  he  is  slow-witted 
or  unhandsome.  There  are  good  and  sufficient  rea- 
sons for  believing  that  Shakespeare's  father  was  a 
man  of  very  different  abilities  and  accomplishments 
from  such  as  were  usually  exhibited  in  that  part  of 
the  country  by  farmers'  sons.  Born  probably  in  the 
little  hamlet  of  Snitterfield,  four  miles  northeast 
of  Stratford,  he  seems  to  have  left  the  home,  rented 
from  Robert  Arden  by  Richard  Shakespeare  his 
father,  for  that  borough  about  1551.  After  a  slight 
apprenticeship,  served  we  know  not  how,  he  began 
the  business  of  deaHng  in  farm  products,  such  as 
grain,  malt,  wool,  hides,  tallow,  mutton,  beef,  and 
prospered  equally  with  the  other  tradesmen  of  the 
town,  many  of  them  doubtless  to  the  manner  born. 
It  would  seem  that  he  was  even  more  successful  than 
the  most  of  them.  We  find  him,  within  ten  years  of 
his  coming  to  Stratford,  elected  to  offices  of  responsi- 
bility, and  in  1568,  after  seventeen  years  of  citizen- 
ship, advanced  to  the  position  of  High  Bailiff,  the 
last  honour  in  the  gift  of  the  Stratford  folk.  He 
could  read  and  write,  and  was  somewhat  expert  in 
the  management  and  auditing  of  accounts. 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  239 

In  1556  John  Shakespeare  purchased  a  house  and 
garden  in  Henley  Street,  presumably  with  reference 
to  the  marriage  that  took  place,  as  we  have  ghake- 
seen,  in  the  following  year.  In  this  house,  speare's 
or  it  may  be  in  the  one  adjoining  it  on  the  '"  p^^^- 
west,  William  Shakespeare  was  born.  There  is  no 
proof  that  Shakespeare's  father  acquired  the  lat- 
ter property  until  1575  ;  but  it  has  been  conjectured 
that  he  may  have  occupied  it  under  lease,  even  after 
the  purchase  of  the  house  next  it  on  the  east.  At 
any  rate,  it  is  not  the  eastern  house  that  is  now  shown 
as  the  birthplace  of  the  poet.  Here,  in  the  one  or 
the  other  home,  it  is  likely,  the  parents  watched  their 
child  during  the  awful  summer  of  1564.  Not  many 
weeks  after  its  birth,  the  plague  reached  Stratford. 
'  In  six  months  one  sixth  of  their  neighbours  were 
buried.  But  although  there  was  scarcely  a  house  in 
which  there  was  not  one  dead,  there  was  a  charm 
upon  their  threshold,  and  William  Shakespeare  lived.' 
The  lone  boy  in  the  cradle,  if  he  had  one,  was  not 
long  to  live  without  a  playmate.  Turning  again  to 
the  register  of  Stratford  church,  we  find  the  christen- 
ing of  a  brother  Gilbert  in  1 566.  There  was  another 
sister  baptized  in  1571,  but  she  died  before  she  was 
eight  years  old.  Other  children,  who  all  grew  to 
maturity,  were  Joan,  christened  in  1569,  Richard,  in 
1574,  and  Edmund,  in  1580. 

Stratford  was  a  good  place  for  a  man  like  Shake- 
speare to  be  born  in.  Perhaps  no  spot  in  latitudes  as 
high  could  have  offered  so  much  for  awakening  the 
soul  of  a  great  poet.     The  choicest  of  rural  scenery 


240  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

was  within  sight  or  reach.  There  were  no  mountains, 
there  was  no  prospect  of  the  sea ;  but  there 
speare's  was  England's  best  of  forest  and  stream  and 
country.  meadow.  The  land  was  dotted  with  little 
hamlets,  connected  with  Stratford  by  lanes  and  by- 
ways and  sometimes  by  well-travelled  roads.  No  less 
than  a  dozen  of  these  humble  villages  were  set  within 
five  or  six  miles  of  Shakespeare's  home.  Something 
less  than  four  miles  east-of-north  lay  .Snitterfield, 
where  John  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  lived  as  a 
youth  and  perhaps  was  born.  Three  miles  north- 
west was  Wilmcote,  where  Robert  Arden  lived,  and 
where  John  Shakespeare  probably  won  Mary  Arden 
for  his  bride.  Two  miles  farther,  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, on  the  Alne,  was  Aston  Cantlowe,  with  its  parish 
church,  where  Shakespeare's  parents  in  all  likelihood 
went  to  be  wedded.  Just  out  of  Stratford,  on  the 
west,  hardly  a  mile  distant,  was  Shottery,  believed  to 
have  been  the  home  of  the  woman  to  whom  Shake- 
speare became  a  husband. 

But  Stratford,  in  spite  of  the  humble  and  secluded 

life  led  by  its  folk,  was  within  the  echo  of  the  great 

world.      On    the    highroad   north    and   east,    twenty 

miles  distant,  lay  Coventry,  accounted  the  third  city 

of  the  kingdom,  with  its  stately  buildings,  its 

Coventry.       ,  ,  ,     .  .  .  t^, 

legends,  and  its  monastic  memories.  The 
Godiva  pageants  were  celebrated  in  Shakespeare's 
day,  and  are  kept  up  even  yet.  The  ancient  Mys- 
teries, though  already  distanced  far  in  a  dramatic 
evolution  that  the  man  from  Stratford  was  to  com- 
plete, were   still   rendered   just   as  of   old.      When 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  24 1 

Shakespeare  was  sixteen,  in  1580,  these  plays  were 
virtually  suppressed;  but  it  is  conceivable  that  he 
was  enterprising  enough  before  that  age  to  have 
found  his  way,  with  or  without  tutelage,  to  the  fa- 
mous spectacles.  His  references  to  Termagant  and 
Herod  seem  to  come  from  no  second-hand  acquaint- 
ance with  those  blusterous,  raging  characters  from 
the  Mysteries.  Five  miles  nearer  Stratford  were 
the  town  and  castle  of  Kenilworth,  where  Kenii- 
Leicester  had  been  installed  by  the  Queen's  worth, 
favour  in  the  year  of  Shakespeare's  birth.  The  mag- 
nificence of  such  a  figure,  who  aspired  even  to  the 
hand  of  his  sovereign,  could  not  have  failed  to 
quicken  the  slowest  bucolic  fancy  in  days  like  those. 
Surely  the  splendour  of  the  masques  and  sports  with 
which  Leicester  entertained  the  Queen,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1575,  for  seventeen  days,  must  have  reached 
the  mind  of  Shakespeare,  and  lifted  it  to  the  level 
of  princely  contemplation.  It  is  indeed  far  from 
likely  that  John  Shakespeare  shut  himself  up  in 
Stratford  throughout  this  festival,  and  deprived  him- 
self, his  wife,  and  his  son  from  witnessing  some  part 
of  pageants  hardly  to  be  matched  in  Christendom. 
On  the   same    highway,   five    miles    nearer 

•'  Warwick. 

home,  stood  Warwick,  with  its  memorials 
and  memories  of  great  men.  The  commoner  sort  of 
people  throughout  the  shire  must  have  known  the 
story  of  Earl  Thomas,  who  led  the  English  knights  at 
Cressy,  and  were  perhaps  talking  with  unabated  won- 
der yet  of  the  great  Richard  who  made  and  unmade 
kings  at  will.     The  country  abounded  in  scenes  and 


242  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

monuments  that  spoke  eloquently  of  the  past,  from 
battle  grounds  and  feudal  castles  to  parish  churches 
and  Ichnield  Street.  To  a  mind  like  Shakespeare's 
all  legends  and  reminders  of  this  sort  must  have  been 
significant  and  inspiring. 

For  such  endowments  and  possibilities  as  were 
Shakespeare's,  something  of  education  was  a  vital 
The  Free  need.  There  was  already,  as  by  marvel,  a 
ScZTof  school  in  waiting.  While  Mary  Arden  could 
Stratford,  not  read,  nor  John  Shakespeare  do  much 
more  perhaps  than  write  his  name,  it  was  possible  for 
their  son  to  know  the  best  things,  in  kind,  that  Eng- 
land then  gave  to  her  youth  of  privilege.  As  early 
as  1482  Thomas  Jolyffe  had  granted  the  foundation 
for  the  Free  Grammar  School  of  Stratford.  The  con- 
ditions were  that  the  Guild  of  the  Holy  Cross,  which 
controlled  the  lands  and  houses,  should  maintain  a 
priest  '  fit  and  able  in  knowledge  to  teach  grammar 
freely  to  all  scholars  coming  to  the  school  in  the  said 
town  to  him.'  After  the  Reformation,  which  dis- 
solved of  course  the  Guild,  the  revenues  were  rescued 
and  reapplied  by  a  charter  of  Edward  VI.  The 
school  founded  and  made  available  thus  for  Shake- 
speare has  not  ceased  yet  its  work.  The  Guild  Hall 
and  Grammar  School,  on  Church  Street  of  Old  Strat- 
ford, stands  as  it  did,  joined  at  an  angle  greater  than 
a  right  angle  with  the  Guild  Chapel,  which  extended 
along  Chapel  Lane.  The  schoolroom,  which  was  in 
the  second  story,  measured  sixty-eight  feet  by  twenty- 
two,  and  had  beams  overhead  in  lieu  of  ceiling.  The 
Guild  Chapel  (84  x  25)  was  somewhat  larger. 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  243 

It  is  by  no  means  certain  that  Shakespeare  was 
ever  at  school  in  the  room  over  the  town  hall,  just 
described.  There  is  an  entry  in  the  corporation 
books  of  March  5,  1595,  to  the  effect  that  'there 
shall  be  no  school  kept  in  the  Chapel  from  this  time 
following.'  It  seems  likely  that  the  work  of  the 
school,  begun  perhaps  after  Edward's  charter  in  the 
Chapel  of  the  Guild,  was  changed  at  that  date  to 
the  room  now  used.  It  is  more  than  probable  that 
Shakespeare  was  a  pupil  in  this  school  in  1571,  or  a 
little  later.  Walter  Roche  was  then  master,  and  was 
succeeded  by  Thomas  Hunt  six  years  after.  One  or 
the  other  of  these,  or  perhaps  both,  must  what 
have  given  Shakespeare  instruction.  Latin  g^^^e" 
was  certainly  administered  to  him,  and  al-  studied. 
most  as  certainly  through  the  medium  of  Lily's 
Grammar ;  and  he  may  have  read  something  from 
Plautus,  Terence,  and  Horace,  as  well  as  Cicero  and 
Vergil.  There  is  no  evidence  that  Greek  was  taught 
in  Stratford  at  this  time,  or  that  Shakespeare  studied 
it  there  or  elsewhere. 

Thus  the  son  of  the  wool-dealer  in  Henley  Street 
reached  an  acquaintance  with  the  Latin  element  in 
EngHsh,  without   which  he  could  not  have  become 
Shakespeare  to  the  world.     To  have  known  Greek 
might  have  increased  his  power ;  not  to  have  known 
Latin  would  have  given  him  a  diction  want-  ghake- 
ing  in  universalness,  and  shorn  of  literary  speare's 
strength.     With    it   he    has   surpassed    all 
other   wielders    of    the    English    tongue.     He    has 
profited  by  Latin  idioms  for  terseness  and  potencies 


244  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

not  otherwise  in  reach.  His  taste  was  sometimes 
faulty,  because  the  taste  of  the  day  was  yet  imperfect. 
But  he  often  effects  a  classic  turn  that  for  neatness 
and  certitude  puts  the  pedants  to  confusion.  Shake- 
speare's knowledge  of  French  and  Italian,  for  he 
seems  to  have  had  some  first-hand  acquaintance  with 
both  these  languages,  must  have  been  derived  from 
later  study. 

How  long  Shakespeare's  school  days  lasted,  there 
is  no  means  of  knowing.  In  1577  his  father's  pros- 
perity began  to  wane.  This  circumstance  is  believed 
to  have  sent  the  lad  to  his  first  work  as  a  wage-earner. 
There  are  other  hints  and  scraps  of  evidence  that  the 
poet  began  to  learn  something  of  the  serious  side  of 
life  at  about  this  time.  His  father's  fortunes  refused 
to  mend.  In  the  autumn  of  1578  he  was  forced  to 
secure  a  loan  of  ^40,  something  like  ;!^320,  or  $1600 
of  present  money,  by  mortgaging  his  wife's  estate  at 
Asbies.  In  the  next  year  his  daughter  Anne  died. 
All  references  and  records  concerning  him  in  the 
next  ten  years  tell  of  little  else  than  distress  and 
humiliation,  and  even  pursuit,  because  of  creditors. 
In  1592  John  Shakespeare  is  reported,  with  eight 
others,  '  for  not  coming  monthly  to  church  according 
to  her  majesty's  laws,'  the  reason  being  not  Popish 
recusancy,  but  fear  of  process  for  debt.  During  this 
period  it  may  be  fairly  assumed  that  the  eldest  son 
aided  in  the  support  of  the  family ;  but  whether  he 
served  as  a  butcher,  a  lawyer's  clerk,  or  a  country 
schoolmaster,  as  has  been  variously  maintained,  there 
is  no  evidence  to  determine. 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  245 

However  much  the  younger  Shakespeare  may  have 
helped  his  mother  in  the  cares  and  burdens  of  her 
household,  on  the  first  coming  of  evil  days,  it  seems 
clear  that  this  aid  was  not  increased  with  the  appar- 
ently increasing  needs.  After  1582  we  find  him 
weighted  with  domestic  burdens  of  his  own ;  the 
stripling  Shakespeare,  not  yet  nineteen,  has  made 
himself  a  husband.  The  story  is  scarcely  gj^^j^^. 
pleasing,  and  involves  some  mysteries.  In  speare's 
Shottery,  according  to  the  records,  there  '"^'""^se. 
were  three  families  bearing  the  name  of  Hathaway. 
The  head  of  one  of  these,  known  as  Richard,  made  in 
1 581  a  will,  and  by  one  provision  of  it  left  the  sum  of 
;^6,  I  Si-.,  4d.  to  a  daughter  Agnes,  to  be  paid  to  her 
on  the  day  of  her  marriage.  This  Richard  Hathaway 
is  identified  as  the  farmer  who  owned  and  lived  in  the 
house,  now  considerably  reduced  and  altered,  which 
is  shown  as  Anne  Hathaway's  cottage.  Agnes  and 
Anne  were  often  treated  as  variants  of  the  same 
name.  As  had  happened  in  Robert  Arden's  family, 
there  was  a  marriage  soon  after  the  father's  death ; 
for  the  Stratford  register  shows  the  birth  of  a  daugh- 
ter Susanna  to  WiUiam  Shakespeare  on  the  26th  of 
May,  1583.  No  record  of  the  marriage  of  Anne 
Hathaway  to  William  Shakespeare  seems  to  be 
anywhere  extant.  But  in  the  consistorial  court  of 
Worcester  there  is  a  document  which  proves  that  the 
marriage  was  licensed  unusually  and  could  not  have 
taken  place  earher  than  November  28,  preceding  the 
date  of  the  document  in  question.  By  this  instru- 
ment, Fulk  Sandells  and  John  Richardson,  husband- 


246  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

men  of  Stratford,  assume  suretyship  in  the  sum  of 
JC40,  that  no  damage  shall  accrue  to  the  Bishop  of 
Worcester  in  consequence  of  licensing  the  marriage 
of  William  Shakespeare  and  Anne  Hathaway  on  once 
asking  of  the  bans.  According  to  the  inscription  on 
Anne  Shakespeare's  tombstone,  she  had  reached  at 
this  time  the  age  of  twenty-six.  Under  date  of 
February  2,  1585,  we  find  entered  in  the  Stratford 
register  the  birth  of  Hamnet  and  Judith  Shakespeare, 
twins. 

There  were  other  William  Shakespeares  in  the  see 
of  Worcester,  to  which  the  Stratford  parishes  be- 
longed, at  this  time ;  and  another  of  these  Williams 
secured  a  license  at  the  bishop's  court,  in  the  same 
fashion,  on  November  27,  to  marry  a  certain  Anne 
Whately,  from  near  Stratford.  There  cannot  be 
question  which  William  Shakespeare  became  after- 
ward the  great  playwright.  Fulk  Sandells  and  John 
Richardson  seem  not  to  have  been  representatives 
of  the  bridegroom,  who  was  perhaps  with  them,  but 
of  the  family  of  the  bride.  Sandells  is  mentioned 
in  her  father's  will  as  a  '  trustie  frende  and  neighbour,' 
and  Richardson  was  probably  the  John  Richardson 
who,  with  his  mark,  witnessed  the  will.  In  a  bond 
of  the  sort  executed  by  these  men,  the  consent  of  the 
parents  or  '  frendes '  of  the  groom  as  well  as  of  the 
bride  was  requisite,  but  in  this  one  no  reference  to 
Shakespeare's  family  appears.  As  the  groom  was  a 
minor,  the  omission  is  the  more  remarkable.  Shake- 
speare himself,  as  has  been  said,  may  have  been 
present  and  able  to  assure  the  bishop's  officer,  or  John 


I 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  247 

Shakespeare  may  have  been  of  the  party  and  testi- 
fied to  his  wiUingness  in  person.  Shakespeare's 
father,  being  at  this  time  in  financial  straits,  would 
not  be  expected  to  add  his  name  to  the  bond,  while 
Sandells  and  Richardson  for  their  part  would  scarcely 
wish  to  assume  suretyship  in  his  behalf.  An  instru- 
ment of  this  one-sided  character  would  be  recognised 
by  any  clergyman  acquainted  with  both  contracting 
parties  and  their  families,  and  such  a  clergyman 
undoubtedly  performed  the  ceremony.  It  has  been 
conjectured,  it  would  seem  with  no  great  unwilling- 
ness, by  writers  affecting  to  regard  the  . 
great  interpreter  and  worshipper  of  woman-  contract  of 
hood  as  no  better  than  the  commonest  of  '"^■'"'^se. 
men,  that  Shakespeare  did  not  marry  Anne  Hatha- 
way save  by  compulsion.  Nothing  is  clearer  than 
that  Shakespeare  could  have  avoided  this  union  had 
he  so  willed.  There  were  cases  enough  in  Stratford, 
if  the  birth  records  are  to  be  trusted,  of  men  who 
ought  to  have  been  husbands,  but  had  escaped  be- 
coming such.  There  is  small  reason  for  assuming 
that  Shakespeare  was  less  adventurous  and  resource- 
ful, whether  or  not  he  were  better  in  ideals  and 
morals,  than  these  young  townsmen.  There  is  evi- 
dence, moreover,  that  the  marriages  of  those  days 
were  almost  always  preceded  by  a  more  or  less 
formal  contract,  which  had  all  the  legal  force  of  a 
marriage  proper.  This  was  generally  followed  by 
the  priestly  ceremonial,  though  sometimes  after  much 
delay.  Robert  Arden  mentions  his  daughter  Agnes, 
in  a   certain  instrument,  as   the   '  wife '   of   Thomas 


248  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

Stringer,  although  we  know  that  the  rehgious  mar- 
riage was  not  solemnised  until  fully  three  months 
after  the  date  borne  by  the  document.  In  Bishop 
Watson's  Doctrine  of  the  Seven  Sacraments,  published 
in  1558,  it  is  observed  that  persons  united  by  pre- 
contract are  '  perfectly  married  together ' ;  while 
'  the  marriage  of  them  in  the  face  of  the  Church 
afterward,  by  the  ministration  of  the  priest,  is  not 
superfluous,  but  much  expedient  for  sundry  causes.' 
The  sense  of  the  times  in  such  matters  seems  to  have 
been  recognised  by  Shakespeare  in  two  of  the  plays 
considered  in  the  present  volume.  In  The  Winter  s 
Tale  he  appears  to  have  thought  a  pre-contract  neces- 
sary, and  sufficient,  for  Perdita  and  Florizel,  before 
their  journey  to  Sicily  together.  By  like  means,  he 
secures  to  Olivia,  in  Twelfth  Night,  legal  authority 
over  the  wavering  affections,  as  she  supposes,  of  the 
Duke's  messenger  {cf.  p.  405).  That  there  was  a  pre- 
contract in  the  instance  in  question  must  not  be 
affirmed,  nor  indeed  denied  ;  neither  is  it  charity  or 
good  morals  to  insist  that,  where  conditions  of  honour- 
able union  were  so  easy,  there  was  deliberate  wrong. 
Whatever,  as  regards  Anne  Hathaway,  the  case  may 
mean,  the  burden  of  proof  is  against  those  who  assume 
or  affirm  that  Shakespeare  was  not  in  all  the  affair 
wholly  chivalrous  and  noble. 

After  this  marriage,  the  page  is  blank  again. 
The  deer-  Whether  Shakespeare  lived  with  his  parents 
stealing  in  Henley  Street,  or  whether  he  was  able 
episo  e.  already  to  maintain  a  home  of  his  own,  there 
is  not   so    much    as  a  hint  in  knowledge.     We  can 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  249 

be  sure  of  nothing  further  than  that,  after  the  birth 
of  Hamnet  and  Judith,  in  February,  1585,  Shake- 
speare went  to  London.  It  is  hardly  possible  that  he 
went  earlier  than  this  year,  or  that  his  going  was 
much  more  than  a  year  later.  There  is  a  tradition 
that  his  departure  was  hastened  by  the  persecutions 
of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  living  at  the  hall  in  Charlcote, 
some  four  miles  east  of  Stratford,  on  the  Avon. 
Sir  Thomas  was  a  member  of  Parliament,  an  ex- 
high  sheriff  and  a  justice  of  the  peace,  and  pursued 
Shakespeare,  according  to  the  story,  for  repeatedly 
breaking  into  his  park  enclosures  and  stealing  his 
deer.  There  is  no  unlikelihood  that  Shakespeare  had 
some  part  in  the  deer-stealing.  That  was  a  common 
enough  offence  against  the  gentry,  and  was  looked 
upon  as  no  worse  morally,  as  some  one  has  said,  than 
the  melon-stealing  of  a  later  day.  When  a  man  from 
such  a  community  becomes  great,  popular  report  con- 
cerning him,  at  least  for  a  generation  or  two,  is  apt 
to  be  correct.  One  item  in  the  tradition,  to  the  effect 
that  Shakespeare  avenged  himself  by  lampooning 
his  pursuer,  is  significant  and  invites  acceptance  of 
the  whole.  Shakespeare  would  be  altogether  hkely 
to  use  the  weapons  that  we  know  he  had.  The 
alleged  first  stanza  of  his  pasquinade,  remembered 
and  contributed  by  an  old  resident,  and  containing 
puns  on  the  family  name,  is  extant,  and  can  hardly 
be  accounted  for  as  a  bucolic  fabrication.  Sir  Thomas 
Shakespeare  seems  to  have  cherished  no  lyg'^fcr 
lasting  fondness  for  the  Lucys,  and  prob-  Shallow. 
ably  by  the  character  of  Justice  Shallow,  in  Merry 


250  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

Wives,  gives  some  further  expression  to  his  satiric 
feeling.  This  play,  at  opening,  presents  Shallow 
threatening  to  make  a  star-chamber  matter  of  a  cer- 
tain culprit's  poaching.  Immediate  reference  is  then 
made  to  his  rank  and  pedigree  and  coat  of  arms. 
The  Lucy  coat  showed  three  luces,  or  pikes,  argent. 
In  Justice  Shallow's  coat  this  number  is  increased  to 
twelve,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans  is  made  presently  (I.  i. 
19,  20)  to  affirm  that  'the  dozen  white  louses  do 
become  an  old  coat  well.'  There  can  be  small 
doubt  that  we  have  here  an  echo  of  the  old  feud  and 
the  old  joke. 

What  Shakespeare  did  when  he  arrived  in  London, 
or  what  he  expected  to  do  on  reaching  there,  are  little 
better  than  matters  of  conjecture.  It  is  possible  that 
he  went  on  purpose  to  join  some  company  of  players, 
for  he  had  undoubtedly  seen  several  such  perform  at 
Stratford,  and  been  quickened  by  their  appeal  to  the 
imaginative  life.  Sir  William  Davenant,  who  affected 
to  know  more  about  Shakespeare's  private  history  than 
anybody  else,  is  said  to  be  authority  for  the  statement 
that  he  worked  first  before  The  Theatre  in  Shore- 
ditch,  holding  horses  for  the  gentry  who  frequented 
there.  This  playhouse,  which  had  been  running  since 
1 577,  was  owned  by  the  father  of  Richard  Burbage,  the 
great  tragic  actor  of  later  days.  The  Curtain,  which 
was  the  only  EngHsh  playhouse  as  yet  in  existence, 
besides  The  Theatre,  was  situated  near  it,  and  had 
perhaps  been  in  operation  almost  as  long.  In  one  of 
these,  certainly,  Shakespeare  soon  found  employment. 
In  1587  Shakespeare's  name  appears  in  conjunction 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  25 1 

with  his  father's  in  an  effort  to  make  over  the  title  of 
the  Asbies  estate  to  John  Lambert,  on  condition  of 
receiving  from  Lambert  ;^20.  It  is  believed  that 
this  attempted  transfer,  which  belongs  to  September 
of  the  year  named,  drew  Shakespeare  home  to 
Stratford. 

For  the  next  five  years  the  record  of  Shakespeare's 
life  is  without  entries.  In  1592  his  name  appears 
under  circumstances  that  argue  a  marked  The  attack 
change  in  his  condition.  He  is  grown  to  be  o^  Greene. 
of  importance  enough  to  have  excited  the  jealousy  of 
one  of  the  first  playwrights  of  the  day,  a  Cambridge 
graduate,  widely  travelled  and  of  unusual  accomplish- 
ments, and  to  have  suffered  from  him  a  bitter  per- 
sonal attack.  Robert  Greene,  once  in  orders,  and 
now  at  the  end  of  his  career  as  a  dramatist  and  poet, 
writes  of  him  thus  in  his  Groats-worth  of  Wit  Bought 
with  a  Million  of  Repentaimce :  '  There  is  an  upstart 
crow,  beautified  with  our  feathers,  that,  with  his  Ty- 
gers  heart  wrapt  in  a  Players  hide,  supposes  he  is  as 
well  able  to  bumbast  out  a  blanke  verse  as  the  best 
of  you;  and  being  an  ^kiSoXwIo. Johannes  Factotum,  is 
in  his  own  conceit  the  onely  Shake-scene  in  a  coun- 
trie.  O  that  I  might  intreate  your  rare  wits  to  be 
imployed  in  more  profitable  courses,  and  let  those 
apes  imitate  your  past  excellence,  and  never  more 
acquaint  them  with  your  admired  inventions !  I 
know  the  best  husband  of  you  all  will  never  prove 
an  usurer,  and  the  kindest  of  them  all  wil  never 
proove  a  kinde  nurse ;  yet,  whilst  you  may,  seeke 
you  better  maisters,  for  it  is  pittie  men  of  such  rare 


252  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

wits  should  be  subject  to  the  pleasures  of  such  rude 
groomes.'  The  death-bed  warning,  of  which  these 
sentences  form  a  part,  is  addressed  to  three  fellow- 
dramatists,  presumably  Marlowe  and  Nash  and 
Lodge,  who  are  exhorted  to  mend  all  their  evil  ways 
as  well  as  to  refrain  from  play-making  henceforward. 
Of  the  italicised  expressions,  which  are  printed  as 
they  appear  in  the  pamphlet,  the  first  is  plainly  bur- 
lesqued from  this  line  (I.  iv.  137)  in  the  Third  Part 
of  Henry  VI,  — 

O  tiger's  heart  wrapt  in  a  woman's  hide. 

The  play  just  named  is  one  of  those  that  Shakespeare 
is  known  to  have  revised,  and  may  have  been  origi- 
nally in  part  the  work  of  Greene.  From  the  part 
of  the  pamphlet  quoted,  it  is  evident  that  Shake- 
speare is  now  an  actor,  and  that  he  has  been  looked 
upon  hitherto  as  not  at  all  belonging  to  the  class  of 
persons  that  should  presume  to  write  blank  verse  or 
recast  a  play.  How  brilliantly  he  has  done  work 
of  this  'Johannes  factotum'  sort  we  may  read  in  the 
rancour  of  a  dying  man,  who  is  trying  to  exhibit  a 
Christian  spirit.  It  is  known  that,  in  February  of 
this  year,  the  company  of  players  to  which  Shake- 
speare belonged  had  opened  a  third  playhouse, 
called  'The  Rose.'  It  seems  to  have  been  in  con- 
sequence of  new  demands  originating  here  that 
Shakespeare's  powers  were  first  called  to  use. 

The  abuse  thus  publicly  administered  to  Shake- 
speare might  have  been,  by  an  untutored,  bucolic 
'groom,'   not  altogether   undeserved.     There  is  evi- 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  253 

dence,  however,  that  it  was  quite  uncalled  for,  and 
that  Shakespeare  was  recognised  already  as  „gj, 
a  man  not  only  of  rare  cleverness,  but  of  Chettie's 
signally  courteous  and  upright  behaviour.  ^^°  °^" 
Greene's  pamphlet,  finished  but  a  little  before  his 
death,  was  put  into  the  hands  of  one  Henry  Chettle, 
who  edited  it  and  saw  it  through  the  press.  Three 
months  later,  Chettle  pubHshed  a  httle  book  of  his 
own,  called  Kind-Harts  Dreamc,  and  in  the  introduc- 
tion to  this  he  apologises  for  allowing  Greene's  abuse 
to  see  the  light.  "  How  I,"  he  writes,  "  have  all  the 
time  of  my  conversing  in  printing  hindred  the 
bitter  inveying  against  schollers,  it  hath  been  very 
well  knowne ;  and  how  in  that  I  dealt,  I  can  suffi- 
ciently proove.  With  neither  of  them  that  take  offence 
was  I  acquainted,  and  with  one  of  them  I  care  not  if 
I  never  be.  Tho  other,  whome  at  that  time  I  did 
not  so  much  spare  as  since  I  wish  I  had,  for  that,  as 
I  have  moderated  the  heate  of  living  writers,  and 
might  have  usde  my  owne  discretion,  —  especially  in 
such  a  case,  the  author  beeing  dead,  —  that  I  did  not 
I  am  as  sory  as  if  the  originall  fault  had  beene  my 
fault,  because  myselfe  have  scene  his  demeanor  no 
lesse  civill,  than  he  exelent  in  the  quahtie  he  pro- 
fesses ;  —  besides,  divers  of  worship  have  reported 
his  uprightnes  of  dealing,  which  argues  his  honesty, 
and  his  facetious  grace  in  writting,  that  aprooves  his 
art."  This  is  a  good  report  of  the  man  who  came 
to  London  six  years  ago.  The  persons  'of  wor- 
ship '  who  have  testified  to  Shakespeare's  upright- 
ness of  dealing,  are  pretty  surely  not  his  employers 


254  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

or  companions  in  the  theatre ;  he  has  made  friends 
among  folk  of  rank  and  influence  in  the  city.  He 
has  the  manners  and  bearing  of  a  gentleman,  and  is 
as  conspicuous  in  such  accomplishments  as  he  is 
excellent  in  his  'quality'  or  profession  as  an  actor. 
Moreover,  his  facility  and  grace  in  writing  seem  to 
have  been  recognised  already,  by  his  patrons  and 
admirers,  as  remarkable,  in  spite  of  Marlowe  and 
Greene  and  Peele,  with  all  their  learning  and  pres- 
tige. Though  Shakespeare  has  entered  this  brilliant 
and  fascinating  circle  of  playwrights  and  players 
under  circumstances  that  tend  most  subtly  and 
strongly  to  undermine  his  character,  he  keeps  his 
head,  and  is  advancing  rapidly  to  the  front. 

Chettle's  reference  to  Shakespeare  as  of  recognised 
eminence  in  the  work  of  acting  squares  well  with 
what  is  known  of  his  prominence  in  the  company  in 
which  he  played.  According  to  an  act  of  Parliament, 
passed  in  the  Ferrex  and  Porrex  period  of  British 
stage  history,  when  acting  had  come  to  be  a  specific 
occupation,  all  troupes  of  players  were  obliged  to 
appear  under  the  patronage  of  some  nobleman  or 
person  of  great  influence  and  following  at  court. 
The  company  toward  which  Shakespeare  seems  to 
have  been  attracted  was  naturally  enough  the  one 
licensed  by  the  Earl  of  Leicester.  Afterward  this 
company  came  under  the  protection  of  the  Lord 
Chamberlain,  and  in  1603  of  no  less  a  personage  than 
King  James.  It  is  of  record  that  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's Company  played  two  comedies  before  Queen 
Elizabeth,  in  December,   1594,  but  only  Kemp  and 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  255 

Shakespeare  and  Burbage  are  named  specifically. 
Kemp  was  the  first  among  the  comedy  actors  s^ake- 
of  this  time,  as  Burbage  was  first  among  speare  as 
tragedians.  If  Shakespeare  were  named 
here  because  he  is  a  playwright,  he  would  be  en- 
tered probably  before  Kemp.  If  he  were  but  a 
sorry  actor  of  comedy,  he  would  surely  stand  after 
Burbage,  or  not  appear  at  all.  Among  nine  of  the 
actors  in  the  King's  Company,  mentioned  in  James's 
license,  Shakespeare  again  is  second,  being  preceded 
by  Lawrence  Fletcher,  and  followed  by  Richard 
Burbage.  The  provisions  of  the  license  are  ex- 
tended, beyond  the  nine  actors  named,  '  to  the  rest 
of  their  associates ' ;  which  would  imply  some  dozen 
or  fifteen  as  the  full  membership  of  the  company. 
In  the  Hst  of  players  who  took  part  in  the  first  presen- 
tation of  Jonson's  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  Shake- 
speare stands  at  the  head ;  and  among  the  players 
that  appear  in  the  first  edition  of  Scjanus,  by  the 
same  author,  Shakespeare  and  Burbage  rank  aUke. 
Moreover,  in  a  list  of  the  '  principal '  actors  of 
Shakespeare's  plays,  prefixed  to  the  FoHo  of  1623, 
Shakespeare's  is  the  first  of  twenty-six  names,  with 
Burbage  following.  Shakespeare's  dramatic  great- 
ness probably  accounts  for  his  name  being  the  first 
one  in  the  Hst,  but  does  not  account  for  his  name 
being  in  the  list.  If  he  had  not  been  an  unusually 
good  actor,  the  playhouse  brotherhood,  which  was 
jealous  of  the  interests  of  each  member,  and  fixed  the 
degrees  of  merit,  would  presumably  not  have  suffered 
his  being  ranked  as  on  a  par  with  Burbage. 


256  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

That  Shakespeare  became  a  successful  actor  in 
the  theatre  of  Elizabethan  times  must  mean  that 
Shake  ^^  ^^^  ^^  good  presence  and  figure,  and 
speare's  that  he  was  sprightly  and  graceful  of  man- 
^  ^^'  ner.     He  can  hardly  be  thought  of  as  actu- 

ally rivalling  the  strongest  type  of  players,  —  for 
there  were  giants  in  those  days,  —  mainly  perhaps  on 
account  of  voice,  which  may  have  lacked  the  timbre 
essential  to  heroic  parts.  There  is  no  suggestion  of 
effeminacy  about  Shakespeare  ;  but  his  kindliness  and 
sympathy  toward  children  and  women  scarcely  argue 
the  brawn  and  weight  of  a  Burbage  personality. 
There  are  traditions  that  he  played  the  Ghost  in 
Hamlet  and  Adam  in  As  Yoii  Like  It,  roles  evidently 
within  the  vocal  limits  of  the  man  supposed.  It  is 
probable  that  Shakespeare  was  at  his  best  in  some 
main  parts  of  the  comedy  series,  as  Benedict,  Petru- 
chio,  Antonio,  Shylock,  Jaques,  though  we  can 
agreeably  conceive  him  his  own  best  Romeo,  Mer- 
cutio,  Horatio,  Posthumus,  Menenius,  Philip  Faul- 
conbridge,  and  Enobarbus,  and  many  other  such 
characters  in  the  histories  and  tragedies.  He  is 
mentioned  once  in  an  epigram,  by  John  Davies  of 
Hereford,  as  a  '  player  of  kingly  parts  in  sport.' 
It  goes  without  saying  that  Shakespeare  compre- 
hended the  roles  that  he  created  better  than  the 
actors  whom  he  set  and  coached  to  carry  them  re- 
spectively ;  and  that,  except  for  histrionic  limitations, 
he  could  have  taken  the  several  parts  himself  better 
than  anybody  else.  It  is  at  least  significant  that  he 
continued  in  the  quality  of  an  actor,  in  spite  of  his 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  257 

princely  income,  and  the  exactions  of  playwriting 
and  management,  till  the  full  close  of  his  dramatic 
career. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Shakespeare  worked 
for  any  length  of  time  at  mending  plays  before  dis- 
covering that  he  could  make  good  ones  for  yg„us  and 
himself.  Yet  if  his  own  statement  is  to  be  ^donh. 
taken  seriously,  it  was  not  a  drama  that  received  his 
first  constructive  effort.  Near  the  middle  of  1593  ap- 
peared his  Venus  and  Adonis,  declared  in  the  dedica- 
tion to  Henry  Wriothesley,  Earl  of  Southampton,  to 
be  'the  first  heir  of  his  invention.'  The  author  of 
this  venture  has  manifestly  learned  the  ways  of  the 
world,  and  conceived  some  confidence  in  his  ability 
to  please  one  of  the  richest  and  most  accomplished 
young  noblemen  of  the  whole  kingdom.  Southamp- 
ton was  understood  to  have  no  especial  antipathy  to 
poems  of  an  amatory  nature,  and  this  may  account 
for  something  in  the  product  not  wholly  to  the 
author's  mind.  '  I  know  not,'  he  says,  '  how  I  shall 
offend  in  dedicating  my  vnpohsht  lines  to  your  Lord- 
ship, nor  how  the  worlde  will  censure  mee  for  choos- 
ing so  strong  a  proppe  to  support  so  weake  a  burthen, 
onelye  if  your  Honour  seeme  but  pleased,  I  account 
myselfe  highly  praised,  and  vowe  to  take  aduantage 
of  all  idle  houres,  till  I  haue  honoured  you  with  some 
grauer  labour.'  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  guessed 
well  what  the  public,  if  not  his  patron,  wanted,  and 
seven  editions  were  called  for  in  hardly  more  than  as 
many  years.  The  Venns  is  not  only  an  interpreta- 
tion, with  considerable  Renaissance  freedom,  of  the 


258  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE  ? 

Goddess  consciousness  on  its  human  side  toward  a 
Galahad  ideal  of  the  Greek  mind ;  it  is  no  less  a 
study  of  that  ideal  itself.  This  second  feature 
seems,  not  perhaps  inexplicably,  to  have  been  gen- 
erally overlooked.  In  consequence  Shakespeare  has 
been  credited  with  the  baser  and  not  the  better 
motive  of  the  theme.  It  is  at  least  the  only  time 
that  this  author  may  be  claimed  to  have  made  to  him- 
self friends  of  the  somewhat  erotic  license  of  the  day. 
It  was  a  sure  path  to  public  favour,  but  Shakespeare 
avoided  it  ever  after. 

In  the  next  year  the  graver  labour  promised  by 

Shakespeare  to  his  patron  was  brought  out  by  the 

same    printer   under   the   title    of    Lticrece. 

Lucrece.  .11  itt-  •     ^^        •  r 

Though  like  the  Venus  essentially  in  form 
and  measure,  it  was  in  spirit  and  purpose  a  very  dif- 
ferent piece  of  work.  It  is  a  study  in  the  sentiments 
of  a  wronged  woman,  whose  integrity  and  greatness 
of  soul  subordinate  her  plight,  and  whose  womanly 
devotion  rises  to  the  strength  of  passion,  and  merges 
all  willingness  to  live.  Those  who  bought  the  Lucrece 
to  gratify  a  salacious  craving,  found  themselves  per- 
vaded by  very  different  influences,  and  wholly  such 
as  were  wrought  by  the  Juliet,  and  Hermione,  and 
Imogen  of  later  years.  Tarquin,  the  counterpart 
study  here,  though  handled  with  a  potent  moral  pur- 
pose, has  been  as  much  ignored  as  the  secondary 
figure  in  the  earlier  piece.  There  is  no  such  repres- 
sion or  repose  in  these  poems  as  we  find  in  Cymbe- 
line  and  The  Winter's  Tale ;  but  there  are  the  same 
clairvoyance  and  the  same  sympathy,  in  full  develop- 


SHAKESPEARE  THE  MAN  259 

ment,  that  have  made  Shakespeare  in  other  works 
the  world's  interpreter  of  woman  to  her  sex.  Both 
these  poems  are  luxuriant  and  crude,  and  betray  the 
shadow  of  the  workman  upon  his  work.  But  there 
are  withal  a  fertility  of  phrase,  a  sureness  of  concep- 
tion and  of  stroke,  and  a  sturdy  defeat  of  all 
restraints  of  rhyme  and  meter,  that  proclaim  the 
present  mastery  of  the  author's  mind.  The  new 
poem  was  naturally  dedicated  to  the  same  patron, 
who  is  reputed  to  have  furnished  Shakespeare  with  a 
very  substantial  indorsement  of  the  work.  But  the 
story,  as  told  by  Davenant,  that  he  gave  the  poet 
;^iooo,  while  not  incredible,  is  most  likely  an 
exaggeration.  Indeed,  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that 
Shakespeare  is  soon  found  investing  considerable 
money  in  his  home  town,  and  that  Southampton  is 
talked  of  there  generally  as  having  supplied  it,  we 
might  dismiss  the  item  as  wholly  mythical. 

In  1593  the  theatres,  we  are  told,  were  closed  on 
account  of  the  plague,  and  Shakespeare's  leisure 
for  authorship  may  have  been  in  conse-  The  public 
quence  more  ample.  In  the  winter  of  this  *^^^^" 
year  the  tragedy  of  Titus  Andronicns,  at  least  in  part 
the  work  of  Shakespeare,  was  presented  with  great 
success.  This  play,  though  impracticable  and  repel- 
lent enough,  by  present  standards,  is  known  to  have 
been  thoroughly  acceptable  to  the  theatre-going  pub- 
lic of  the  day.  Nothing  was  seemingly  too  bloody 
and  sensational  for  the  general  taste.  This  is  a  fact 
to  be  remembered  in  evaluating  Shakespeare's  popu- 
larity and  influence  with  later  plays,  and  his  service 


260  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

to  the  stage  in  making  them  different  from  the  ac- 
cepted models.  An  edition  of  the  play  just  named 
was  printed  in  1594  ;  but  whether  it  was  identical  with 
the  Quarto  issued  in  1600,  and  essentially  our  present 
text,  cannot  be  shown.  In  December  of  1594  Shake- 
speare played  before  the  Queen  at  Greenwich,  as  has 
been  noted,  in  two  comedies,  and  at  this  time,  proba- 
bly as  actor  rather  than  author,  won  her  admiration. 
On  the  evening  of  Innocents'  Day,  December  28,  a 
play  was  rendered  at  Gray's  Inn  which  is  confidently 
believed  to  have  been  TJie  Comedy  of  Error's.  Other 
plays,  as  King  John,  RicJiard  II,  and  Richard  III,  are 
referred  to  this  year  or  to  the  one  succeeding. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  Shakespeare  worked 
industriously  at  play-making  in  1595.  Several  pieces 
that  cannot  be  assigned  to  the  later  dates  must  have 
taken  shape  within  the  year.  Shakespeare  is  now 
easily  the  first  figure  in  dramatic  authorship.  Mar- 
lowe, who  seems  to  have  been  for  a  time  his  teacher, 
but  whose  ambitious  and  blustering  manner  he  has 
outgrown,  has  been  dead  two  years.  Lyly  and 
Greene  and  Peele  are  as  good  as  obsolete.  There  is 
yet  much  of  development  to  be  compassed,  at  least 
in  form.  His  fines  are  end-stopped,  as  well  as  harsh 
sometimes  and  forced.  But  his  observation,  his  wit, 
his  vision,  seem  perfect  now.  He  has  grown-up  con- 
fidence, too,  in  life  and  truth  as  the  sole  basis  of  dra- 
matic endeavour  and  success.  If  he  has  ever  been 
Romeo  timorous  or  discouraged,  his  days  of  doubt 
atid  jiihet.  xsxy^^x.  havc  somc  time  since  passed  away.  In 
1596  we  find  evidence  that  the  Romeo  and  Jtdiet  was 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  26 1 

brought  out  at  The  Curtain,  and  with  unexampled 
favour.  It  seems  to  have  made  its  author  the  lion  of 
society,  and  the  most  distinguished  poet  as  well  as 
dramatist  in  the  kingdom. 

In  August  of  this  year  Hamnet,  son  of  the  poet, 
died  at  Stratford,  and  was  buried  there.  No  syllable 
of  evidence  exists  concerning  the  lad's  promise,  or 
his  father's  hopes  or  grief.  There  are  many  indica- 
tions that  Shakespeare's  prosperity  and  popularity 
are  beginning  to  reach  his  native  borough.  He 
seems  to  have  released  his  father  from  debt,  and 
to  have  established  him  beyond  the  necessity  of 
meddling  further  with  the  uncertainties  of  trade. 
There  is  evidence  that  John  Shakespeare  had  taken 
steps,  some  time  before  October  of  the  same  year, 
to  secure  a  coat  of  arms  from  the  Heralds'  Qr^^^Qf 
College.  The  application  was  not  honoured  coat 
until  further  effort,  three  years  later,  in  1 599. 
But  it  is  significant  that  the  man  who,  as  late  as  1 592, 
had  been  reported  for  non-attendance  at  church  from 
fear  of  bailiffs,  was  now  seeking  a  distinction  that  few 
citizens  of  Stratford  had  enjoyed.  The  expense  of 
securing  the  honour  was  certainly  not  borne  by  him. 
In  the  spring  of  1597  Shakespeare  bought  the  great 
house,  built  by  Sir  Hugh  Clopton  before  1500,  and 
with  it  grounds  of  nearly  an  acre  in  extent.  This  es- 
tate, known  as  New  Place,  was  situated  at  the 

New  Place. 

corner  of  Church  Street  and  Chapel  Lane, 
just  across  the  latter  from  Guild  Chapel.     The  house, 
though  built  substantially  of   brick,  and  with  more 
prospect  of  permanency  than  any  dwelling  besides  in 


262  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

Stratford,  is  not  in  existence  now,  having  been  taken 
down  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
buildings  and  grounds  had  not  been  well  cared  for, 
and  Shakespeare  paid  for  the  property  but  ;£6o. 
That  some  or  all  of  the  purchase  money  came  from 
the  donative  of  Southampton  to  Shakespeare,  is  a 
tradition,  and  may  be  true. 

The  year  1597  is  an  important  one  in  the  poet's 
history.  It  is  not  clear  that  the  substantial,  book- 
J.  buying  public  had  been  much  reached  by 
Romeo  and  his  popularity  hitherto.  But  now  certainly 
juhet.  j.|^g  cultivated  people  of  the  city  were  clam- 
ouring for  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  in  printed  form.  That 
the  demand  was  urgent,  seems  clear  from  the  fact 
that  two  fonts  of  type  were  used  to  set  up  the  work. 
This  first  printing  did  not,  however,  give  the  public 
an  authentic  text,  but  a  patchwork  substitute,  made 
up  apparently  from  short-hand  notes  and  remembered 
passages.  The  owners  of  copyright  plays  were  not 
likely  to  encourage  the  circulation  of  their  property 
as  literature,  and  would  undoubtedly  have  suppressed 
all  attempts  of  this  kind,  if  legal  measures  could  have 
been  used  as  effectually  as  now.  Richard  II  and 
Richard  III,  the  latter  always  a  popular  play,  were 
issued  in  quarto  form  this  year.  Thus  was  the  foun- 
dation of  Shakespeare's  fame  as  a  poet  and  literary 
master  securely  laid.  Before  the  close  of  1597  the 
records  show  that  John  and  Mary  Shakespeare  entered 
suit  in  Chancery  against  John  Lambert  for  the  recov- 
ery of  Asbies,  another  proof  that  means  as  well  as 
courage  had  come  back  to  the  elder  Shakespeares  at 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  263 

Stratford.  Meanwhile,  the  multiplication  of  plays 
went  on.  At  Christmas  it  is  known  that  Loves 
Labour  s  Lost  was  performed  before  Elizabeth  at 
Whitehall.  Shakespeare's  receipts  must  have  by 
this  time  become  considerable.  The  lowest  sum 
received  for  a  play  was  hardly  less  than  1^250  of 
present  money,  and  might  be  almost  twice  as  much, 
Shakespeare's  dramas,  we  may  be  sure,  s^ake- 
brought  as  high  a  price  as  anybody's.  His  speare's 
salary  as  an  actor,  with  perquisites  and 
gifts,  has  been  estimated  as  not  less  than  $4000  a 
year.  Two  or  three  years  later,  after  he  becomes 
a  partner  in  theatrical  management,  his  income  will 
be  four  or  five  times  as  much.  His  means  have 
been  at  every  point  sufficient  to  account  for  the 
prosperity  and  the  transactions  of  which  we  know. 
TJie  First  Part  of  King  LLenry  Fourth  belongs  prob- 
ably to  this  year,  1597,  since  it  is  entered  in  the 
Stationer's  Register  in  1598.  TJie  Merchant  of  Venice 
followed  it  in  the  year  last  named. 

In  1598  begins  Shakespeare's  professional  associ- 
ation with  Ben  Jonson,  who  has  furnished  us  with 
the  largest  and  best  part  of  our  know-  Ben 
ledge  concerning  him  as  a  man.  Jonson  Jonson. 
possessed  considerable  learning  of  the  kind  fostered 
in  those  days,  and  had  perhaps  somewhat  earlier 
essayed  stage  work.  He  sadly  lacked  the  tact  and 
touch  requisite  for  success  with  a  pubhc  almost 
wholly  in  sympathy  with  Shakespeare's  school.  Jon- 
son, according  to  Rowe's  account,  had  brought  to 
Shakespeare's  company  one  of  his  plays,  '  in  ordei 


264  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

to  have  it  acted ;  and  the  persons  into  whose  hands 
it  was  put,  after  having  turn'd  it  carelessly  and  super- 
ciliously over,  were  just  upon  returning  it  to  him  with 
an  ill-natur'd  answer  that  it  would  be  of  no  service 
to  their  company,  when  Shakespear  luckily  cast  his 
eye  upon  it,  and  found  something  so  well  in  it  as  to 
engage  him  first  to  read  it  through,  and  afterwards 
to  recommend  Mr.  Jonson  and  his  writings  to  the 
publick.'  This  piece,  which  was  undoubtedly  Every 
Man  in  his  Humour,  was  brought  out,  as  we  have 
seen,  with  Shakespeare  in  the  cast,  and  was  success- 
ful. It  was  at  best  but  an  indifferent  play,  as  judged 
by  the  standards  of  the  company,  and  the  kindness 
with  which  Shakespeare  commended  it  to  the  public, 
if  he  did  commend  it,  cannot  but  be  held  symptomatic 
of  his  mind.  There  was  no  reason,  except  from  out- 
side his  eminence  as  a  playwright,  that  could  have 
prompted  him  to  regard  the  piece  differently  from 
the  other  players  who  turned  it  carelessly  and  super- 
ciUously  over.  'After  this,'  Rowe  says,  'they  were 
profess'd  friends ;  tho'  I  don't  know  whether  the 
other  ever  made  him  an  equal  return  of  gentleness 
and  sincerity.  Ben  was  naturally  proud  and  insolent, 
and,  in  the  days  of  his  reputation,  did  so  far  take 
upon  him  the  supremacy  in  wit,  that  he  could  not  but 
look  with  an  evil  eye  upon  any  one  that  seem'd  to 
stand  in  competition  with  him.'  Jonson's  own  testi- 
mony, written  perhaps  twenty  years  after  the  death 
of  Shakespeare,  is  not  less  strong :  '  I  lov'd  the  man, 
and  doe  honour  his  memory,  on  this  side  idolatry,  as 
much  as  any.     Hee  was,  indeed,  honest,  and  of  an 


SHAKESPEARE  THE    MAN  265 

open  and  free  nature ;  had  an  excellent  phantsie ; 
brave  notions  and  gentle  expressions ;  wherein  hee 
flow'd  with  that  facility  that  sometime  it  was  neces- 
sary he  should  be  stop'd.'  These  sentences  are  pre- 
ceded and  followed  by  certain  qualifications  regarding 
his  taste  and  style,  which  will  be  given  later.  A  more 
extended  and  perhaps  better-considered  eulogium,  be- 
ginning,— 

To  draw  no  enuy  (Shakespeare)  on  thy  name. 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  Booke,  and  Fame  : 

While  I  confesse  thy  writings  to  be  such. 
As  neither  Man,  nor  Muse,  can  praise  too  much, — 

was  contributed  by  him  to  the  FoHo  edition  of  Shake- 
speare published  in  1623. 

Further  testimony  as  to  the  esteem  in  which 
Shakespeare's  work  has  come  to  be  regarded  dates 
from  this  year.  In  the  same  month  in  which  paiiadis 
Shakespeare  was  helping  bring  out  Ben  Jon-  ^''^f^ta. 
son's  comedy,  Francis  Meres's  Paiiadis  Tamia  ap- 
peared. In  this  the  author,  who  was  a  man  of  learn- 
ing, makes  a  summary  of  literary  names,  classical  and 
English,  associating  Shakespeare  with  authors  greatly 
his  inferior,  and  praising  all  indiscriminately.  'As  the 
Greeke  tongue,'  he  says,  'is  made  famous  and  eloquent 
by  Homer,  Hesiod,  Euripedes,  .^schilus,  Sophocles, 
Pindarus,  Phocylides,  and  Aristophanes ;  and  the 
Latine  tongue  by  Virgill,  Ovid,  Horace,  Silius  Itahcus, 
Lucanus,  Lucretius,  Ausonius,  and  Claudianus;  so  the 
English  tongue  is  mightily  enriched  and  gorgeouslie 
invested,  in  rare  ornaments  and  resplendent  abili- 
ments,  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  Spencer,  Daniel,  Dray- 


266  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

ton,  Warner,  Shakespeare,  Marlow,  and  Chapman.' 
In  another  connection  he  mentions,  as  best  for 
tragedy,  '  Lorde  Buckhurst,  Doctor  Leg  of  Cam- 
bridge, Doctor  Edes  of  Oxforde,  maister  Edward 
Ferris,  the  authour  of  the  Mirrour  for  Magistrates, 
Marlow,  Peele,  Watson,  Kid,  Shakespeare,  Drayton, 
Chapman,  Decker,  and  Benjamin  Johnson';  and 
as  'the  best  for  comedy  amongst  us'  he  includes 
Shakespeare  as  the  ninth  in  a  list  of  seventeen  names. 
But  the  judgments  of  Meres  in  the  book  at  large  are 
redeemed  by  two  sentences,  in  which  he  treats  of 
Shakespeare  by  himself.  '  As  the  soule  of  Euphor- 
bus,'  he  says,  'was  thought  to  live  in  Pythagoras, 
so  the  sweete  wittie  soule  of  Ovid  lives  in  mellifluous 
and  hony-tongued  Shakespeare ;  witnes  his  Venus 
and  Adonis,  his  Lucrece,  his  sugred  Sonnets  among 
his  private  friends,  &c.  —  As  Plautus  and  Seneca  are 
accounted  the  best  for  comedy  and  tragedy  among 
the  Latines,  so  Shakespeare  among  the  English  is 
the  most  excellent  in  both  kinds  for  the  stage ;  for 
comedy,  witnes  his  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  his  Errors, 
his  Love  labors  lost,  his  Love  labours  wonne,  his 
Midsummers  night  dreame,  and  his  Merchant  of 
Venice ;  for  tragedy,  his  Richard  the  Second,  Richard 
the  Third,  Henry  the  Fourth,  King  John,  Titus  An- 
dronicus  and  his  Romeo  and  Juliet.'  This  list  of 
pieces  is  probably  complete  up  to  the  date  of  writing, 
though  the  circumstance  that  the  number  of  extant 
plays  in  tragedy  is  reported  as  exactly  the  same  as  of 
extant  plays  in  comedy  is  not  assuring.  It  is  not 
likely   that   Shakespeare    consciously   attempted   to 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  267 

keep  the  balance  even.  It  will  have  been  likewise 
noted  that  Jonson  is  mentioned  as  already,  in  tragedy, 
an  author  of  reputation.  But  it  may  be  possible,  as 
some  one  has  suggested,  that  Jonson  was  known, 
'  among  his  private  friends,'  of  whom  Meres  seems 
to  have  been  one,  before  the  acceptance  of  his  work 
by  the  companies,  as  a  writer  of  classic  stage  plays. 
The  comedy  of  Shakespeare  referred  to  by  the  title 
Love's  Labour  s  Won  may  have  been  one  of  the  many 
Elizabethan  pieces  that  have  perished,  but  probably 
exists  under  the  name  of  AlVs  Well  that  Ends  Well. 
There  is  small  reason  for  believing  that  any  drama 
which  Shakespeare  had  any  material  share  in  making 
has  been  permitted  to  disappear. 

After  1 599  Shakespeare  was  able  to  derive  income 
from  other  sources  than  acting  and  writing  plays. 
The  Theatre  was  taken  down,  and  from  the  materials, 
which  were  removed  to  Southwark,  near  London 
Bridge,  the  Globe  Theatre  was  in  part  con-  Globe 
structed.  The  new  playhouse  was  rather  a  theatre, 
large  affair,  accommodating  it  is  inferred  as  many  as 
two  thousand  patrons.  Its  name.  The  Globe,  was 
derived  from  its  sign  —  shops  and  like  public  places 
being  designated  not  by  street  numbers  but  *  signs ' 
—  of  Atlas  with  the  world  upon  his  shoulders. 
Shakespeare  and  other  actors  were  the  lessees. 
What  income  per  share  was  derived  from  the  man- 
agement is  not  known,  but  it  probably  ranged  from 
;i^ioo  to  v^200  in  money  of  the  time.  This  year 
appears  to  have  been  also  an  active  one  in  authorship  ; 
Shakespeare  seems  to  have  produced  Henry  V  and 


268  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

Much  Ado  before  its  close.  There  is  a  tradition  that 
Elizabeth,  on  account  of  a  particular  liking  for  the 
part  of  Falstaff  in  Henry  IV,  requested  Shakespeare 
to  make  a  play  showing  that  character  in  love, 
Wives  of  and  that  Shakespeare  complied,  writing  the 
Windsor.  Mevvy  Wives  in  fourteen  days.  We  have 
seen  that  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  who  died  in  1600,  is 
probably  satirised  in  this  drama.  Shakespeare  almost 
certainly  would  not  wait  till  the  death  of  his  former 
persecutor  before  pillorying  him  in  a  play.  The  cor- 
rect text  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  was  issued  this  year  in  a 
new  quarto. 

In  1600  it  is  believed  that  Shakespeare  brought 
out  his  Twelfth  Night  and  As  You  Like  It,  which, 
with  Much  Ado,  rank  as  his  three  best  comedies. 
These  pieces  certainly,  in  point  of  dramatic  and  poetic 
excellence,  belong  together.  In  the  rebellion  of  160 1 
Shakespeare's  company  was  professionally  implicated, 
having  been  hired  to  render  a  play  that  is  supposed 
to  have  been  Richard  IT.  Shakespeare  does  not 
seem  to  have  lost  favour  in  consequence  with  the 
Queen,  as  his  company  is  shown  to  have  played 
before  her  Majesty  at  Richmond  palace  a  few  weeks 
later.  In  September  of  this  year  John  Shakespeare 
died.  During  the  winter,  in  a  play  called  The  Scourge 
of  Simony,  acted  by  the  students  in  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge,  Shakespeare  received  recognition  of  a 
novel  kind.  Burbage  and  Kemp,  the  chief  players 
of  the  day,  are  introduced  as  having  come  to  Cam- 
bridge to  instruct  the  students  in  acting.  Kemp  is 
made  to  remark  to  Burbage  thus :  '  Few  of  the  uni- 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  269 

versity  pen  plaies  well :  they  smell  too  much  of  that 
writer  Ovid,  and  that  writer  Metamorphosis,  ^-^^  ^^_ 
and  talke  too  much  of  Proserpina  and  Jup-  tume/rom 
piter.  Why,  heres  our  fellow  Shakespeare  ^''^"^""^• 
puts  them  all  downe,  I,  and  Ben  Jonson  too.  O  that 
Ben  Jonson  is  a  pestilent  fellow !  he  brought  up  Hor- 
ace giving  the  poets  a  pill,  but  our  fellow  Shakespeare 
hath  given  him  a  purge  that  made  him  beray  his 
credit.'  This  play  was  printed  five  years  later,  under 
The  Rcturnefrom  Pernassiis  as  its  first  title.  In  May 
of  the  year  following  Shakespeare  is  recorded  as  the 
purchaser  of  a  hundred  and  seven  acres  of  land  near 
Stratford,  for  which  the  payment  of  £,'>)2Q)  was  made. 
Shakespeare  is  unable  to  leave  London  to  consum- 
mate the  transfer,   and  the  conveyance    is    „     , 

•'  Hamlet, 

sealed  and  delivered  to  Gilbert  Shakespeare 

as  his  proxy.     Sometime  in  the  spring  of  this  year 

Hamlet  was  brought  out  at  the  Globe  Theatre. 

In  1603,  on  the  death  of  Elizabeth,  and  the  acces- 
sion of  James  I,  Shakespeare's  company  was  at  once 
licensed  as  the  King's  Players,  Shakespeare  ranking 
second  in  the  list,  with  Burbage  third.     Hamlet  was 
issued  in  the  first  quarto,  clearly  a  pirated  edition. 
It  was  followed  in    1604  by  the   second   quarto,   in 
authorised  text,  '  enlarged  to  almost  as  much  againe 
as  it  was,  according  to  the  true  and  perfect  Shake- 
Coppie.'       Other    plays    not   more    popular  ^^f^^V 
than    this    one,    but   in    general   estimation  period. 
greater,   followed   in  sublime  succession.       It  is  the 
heyday  of    Shakespeare's    skill  and    power.       Here 
belong    somewhat    unassignably    by   years    Othello, 


2/0  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

MacbetJi,  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Troilus  and  Cressida, 
Coriolanns  and  King  Lear,  with  Measure  for  Measiire, 
Timon  of  Athens,  and  Pericles,  Prince  of  Tyre.  Any 
one  of  these,  save  the  last  three,  would  have  sufficed  to 
make  a  dramatist  immortal.  Meantime  changes  were 
coming,  or  had  come.  In  spite  of  heavy  preoccupa- 
tions, Shakespeare  is  turning  his  thoughts  toward 
Stratford.  In  1605  he  is  purchaser  of  the  tithes  of 
Stratford,  Old  Stratford,  Welcombe,  and  Bishopton, 
paying  ^440  for  the  rights  secured.  While  he  is 
doing  the  hardest  literary  work  of  his  life,  his  mind 
seems  most  engaged  with  business  details,  and  the 
purchase  of  the  tithes  entailed  no  little  trouble.  In 
the  summer  of  1607  Shakespeare's  first-born,  Su- 
sanna, was  married  to  John  Hall,  a  physician  of  Strat- 
ford. In  December  of  that  year  Edmund  Shakespeare, 
the  poet's  brother,  was  buried  from  the  Church  of 
St.  Saviour  in  Southwark.  He  is  known  to  have 
been  an  actor,  presumably  in  his  brother's  company ; 
and  the  time  of  his  burial,  which  was  in  the  morning, 
would  seem  chosen  that  his  fellow-actors  might  attend 
the  services.  On  the  9th  of  September,  1608,  Mary 
Arden,  Shakespeare's  mother,  died. 

Shakespeare  did  not  suffer  in  his  dramatic  rights 
alone  from  the  cupidity  of  unprincipled  publishers. 
Early  in  1609  a  little  quarto,  entitled  Shake-speares 
The  Son-  Souuets  ncucr  before  imprinted,  was  carried 
nets.  through  the  press  by  Thomas  Thorpe.    This 

man  had  in  some  way  secured  a  manuscript  copy  of 
Shakespeare's  *  sugared  sonnets  among  his  private 
friends,'  and,   assuming   that  the  author's  dramatic 


SHAKESPEARE  THE  MAN  271 

prestige  would  sell  the  work,  issued  an  edition  of  it. 
It  does  not  appear  that  the  venture  was  especially 
successful.  In  1591  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  AstropJiel 
and  Stella  had  been  published  under  similar  circum- 
stances, and  introduced  a  fashion  of  sonneteering  that 
lasted  fully  half-a-dozen  years.  There  seems  no  ques- 
tion that  the  sonnets  in  the  book  throughout  are 
Shakespeare's,  but  it  is  pretty  certain  that  they  date 
almost  wholly  from  the  Venus  and  Liicrece  period  of 
Kis  authorship.  It  is  manifest,  besides,  that  many  of 
the  sonnets  have  covert  references  to  Southampton, 
as  still  the  patron  of  their  author.  Nearly  all  of  the 
poems,  which  are  sentimental  and  literary,  rather 
than  utterances  of  genuine  feeling,  are  amatory,  fol- 
lowing the  conventions  of  the  time.  Meres,  enu- 
merating further  in  his  Palladis  Tamia,  had  spoken 
thus  of  the  school  :  '  These  are  the  most  passionate 
among  us  to  bewaile  and  bemoane  the  perplexities  of 
Love,  —  Henrie  Howard,  earle  of  Surrey,  Sir  Thomas 
Wyat  the  elder.  Sir  Francis  Brian,  Sir  Philip  Sidney, 
Sir  Walter  Rawley,  Sir  Edward  Dyer,  Spencer, 
Daniel,  Drayton,  Shakespeare,  Whetstone,  Gas- 
coyne,  Samuell  Page,  sometimes  fellowe  of  Corpus 
Christi  Colledge  in  Oxford,  Churchyard,  Bretton.' 
The  fashion  of  Petrarch's  tributes  to  Laura,  as  imi- 
tated in  English  first  by  Wyatt  and  Surrey,  had 
been  extended  to  masculine  favourites,  and  with  about 
as  much  subtlety  and  subjectivity  as  to  the  real  or 
imaginary  mistresses  that  they  sung. 

The  major  part  of  the  sonnets  in  this  case  deal  with 
a  man,  for  whom  the  author  professes  a  fondness  and 


272  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

devotion  surpassing  the  love  of  women.  Were  it  estab- 
lished that  Shakespeare  ever  experienced  such  an  affec- 
tion as  is  here  affirmed  for  any  man,  we  should  have 
new  matter  by  which  to  evaluate  his  nature.  But  it 
is  impossible  to  sequestrate  the  subjective  element. 
From  the  language  of  certain  sonnets  it  has  been 
inferred  that  the  worshipped  lover's  name  was  Will. 
Whether  there  was  ever  any  single  person  specifi- 
cally and  consistently  in  the  poet's  mind  cannot  be 
known  ;  but  if  there  was,  and  of  the  rank  and  culture 
that  the  sonnets  imply,  it  is  as  good  as  demonstrable 
that  he  did  not  bear  this  name.  As  for  the  other 
chief  figure,  the  dark  lady,  with  whom  the  last 
twenty-eight  sonnets  are  concerned,  there  are  uncon- 
The  dark  vcntioual  allusions  and  compliments  of  a 
lady.  kind  that  argue  a  substantial  basis  of  fact 

beneath  the  poetry.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  Shake- 
speare, on  first  entering  the  great  world  of  wit  and 
fashion,  came  under  the  spell  of  a  brilliant  but  un- 
principled woman,  connected,  perhaps,  with  the  court, 
or  certainly  with  the  highest  social  circles.  There 
were  few  men  in  that  age  incapable  of  responding  to 
the  blandishments  of  such  a  social  figure.  Being 
himself  handsome  and  fascinating,  as  we  must 
assume,  and  of  a  temperament  and  spirit  especially 
attractive  to  the  sex  that  he  knew  so  well,  he  could 
hardly  have  escaped  the  attentions  of  self-willed 
women.  The  chief  marvel  is,  if  there  be  much  per- 
sonal history  here,  that  Shakespeare  should  have 
imparted  it  so  freely,  and  celebrated  into  notoriety, 
*  among  his  private  friends,'  a  woman  that  he  genu- 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  273 

inely  cared  for.  It  is,  indeed,  quite  likely  that  his 
friends  would  be  also  her  friends,  who  might  resent 
the  frank  and  unsparing  treatment  accorded  her. 
These  sonnets  do  not  read  like  poems  of  correction 
or  reproof,  intended  for  the  lady's  eye,  or  their  exist- 
ence and  later  currency  might  be  accounted  for. 
They  seem  rather  the  spiritual  diary  of  a  man  who 
records,  for  himself  alone,  the  soundings  of  his  heart 
and  his  progressive  acquaintance  with  eternal  law. 
It  is  possible  that  Shakespeare  knew  fully  of  the 
vogue  that  the  'amour'  sonnets  had  reached  abroad, 
and  that  he  was  really  celebrating  no  other  than  some 
imaginary  Hel^ne  or  Camille,  without  the  name,  in  a 
thoroughly  personal  and  characteristic  vein.  It  is, 
however,  probable  that  these  sonnets  are  in  some 
measure  autobiographical.  Those  who  wish  to  estab- 
lish Shakespeare  in  literary  history  as  a  man  of 
stained  character,  must  have  the  last  word  in  this 
matter.  It  should  not  be  forgotten  here  that  human 
goodness  is  but  relative,  and  that  conduct  is  not  in 
itself  the  final  test  of  character.  There  are  pure 
men  and  women  who  care  nothing  for  purity  as  such, 
and  there  are  men  and  women  who  keep  the  whole 
law,  yet  are  not  in  alliance  with  it  or  with  the  pur- 
poses it  serves.  We  are  sure  from  the  ^^^^^ 
works  that  Shakespeare  has  left  us  that  he  speare's 
loved  purity  and  truth  more  than  all  things  "P'™'^""- 
else.  No  man  besides  has  so  exalted  goodness  and 
worth,  or  manifested  such  faith  in  the  fundamental 
instincts  of  humanity.  The  Sonnets,  because  of  the 
insistent  amatory  burden  of  their  sentiment,  are  not 

T 


2/4  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

agreeable  reading  in  present  times,  and  many  people 
are  ignorant  of  the  strength  and  Keats-like  luxuriance 
of  the  lines. 

It  is  established  that  in  1609  Shakespeare's  com- 
pany came  into  possession  of  the  Blackfriars  Theatre, 
The  Black  ^^^  ^^^^  ^"  ^^^  following  year  Shakespeare, 
friars  Burbagc,  and  Hemmings  played  in  it.    This 

playhouse  was  opened  in  1 597,  and  for  some 
time  drew  patronage  away  from  The  Theatre  and 
The  Curtain  because  of  the  novelty  of  boy  players. 
It  seems  that  Shakespeare's  company  suffered  con- 
siderable reduction  in  receipts,  and  may,  as  hinted  in 
Havtlet  (II.  ii.  343-360)  have  been  obliged  to  tour 
in  the  counties,  to  prevent  disbanding.  In  161 1,  it 
is  more  than  probable,  Cymbeline,  The  Winter  s  Tale, 
and  The  Tempest  were  brought  out.  Shakespeare's 
contract  required  him  to  furnish  his  company  with 
two  plays  a  year.  As  no  plays  seem  to  have  been 
written  after  this  date,  it  is  presumed  that  his  con- 
nection with  the  Globe  Theatre  and  the  King's  players 
did  not  continue  so  long  as  twelve  months  after.  The 
Henry  VIII  is  believed  to  have  been  composed  after 
this  time,  but  only  a  part  of  it  is  Shakespeare's.  That 
it  was  his  purpose  to  withdraw  at  once  to  Stratford 
Shake-  seems  unUkely,  since  in  March  of  161 3 
London  ^^  bought  a  housc  near  Blackfriars.  The 
house.  purchase  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
made  as  an  investment,  since  £,60  of  the  ^^140  to 
be  paid  was  left  on  mortgage.  The  building  had  been 
used  as  a  shop  in  the  lower  story,  and  was  probably 
wanted  as  a  home.     But  if  it  was  Shakespeare's  pur- 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  275 

pose  to  bring  his  wife  and  daughter  to  London,  and 
live  with  them  here,  he  evidently  soon  changed  his 
mind.  In  June  of  this  year  the  Globe  Theatre  was 
burned,  having  caught  fire  during  a  performance  of 
King  Henry  VIII,  but  in  the  rebuilding  and  reopening 
no  reference  to  Shakespeare  is  met  with.  It  seems 
clear  that  he  must  have  withdrawn  to  Stratford.  He 
is  heard  of  here  in  connection  with  an  attempt  to  fence 
in  some  part  of  the  common  lands  within  the  borough. 
Entries  concerning  this,  from  November,  1614,  to 
September,  1615,  in  a  diary  kept  by  the  town-clerk 
of  Stratford,  contain  Shakespeare's  name. 

On  the  25th  of  January,  16 16,  the  first  draft  of 
Shakespeare's  will  was  prepared  by  Francis 
Collins,  a  solicitor  not  of  Stratford,  but  of  speaie's 
Warwick,  Shakespeare  being  at  this  time,  ^''^' 
according  to  the  opening  sentence  in  the  document, 
in  perfect  health.  In  February  Judith  Shakespeare 
was  married  to  Thomas  Quiney  of  Stratford.  We 
find  nothing  after  this  save  that  Shakespeare  died  on 
the  23d  of  April,  perhaps  his  birthday,  after  finishing 
his  fifty-second  year.  There  is  a  tradition  that  his 
disease  was  fever,  and  there  is  reason  to  believe  that 
his  death  was  preceded  by  a  lingering  sickness  of  this 
kind.  The  provisional  draft  of  the  will  was  never 
copied,  but  changed  seemingly  in  haste  by  erasures 
and  interlinear  additions,  January  being  corrected  to 
March,  but  the  day  of  the  month  standing  unaltered 
as  the  twenty-fifth.  To  Susanna  Hall  is  devised 
the  bulk  of  the  property,  including  New  Place,  the 
Henley  Street  '  messuages  or  tenementes  with  thap- 


276  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

purtenaunces,'  as  also  '  that  messuage  or  tenemente 
with  thappurtenaunces  wherein  one  John  Robinson 
dwelleth,  scituat  lyeing  and  being  in  the  Blackfriers 
in  London  nere  the  Wardrobe.'  His  bequest  to  Ju- 
dith is  ;!^300,  or,  in  modern  values,  ^12,000.  To  seven 
friends,  including  his  fellow-actors  Hemmings,  Bur- 
bage,  and  Condell,  he  leaves  26s.  8d.  '  apece  to  buy 
them  ringes.'  In  the  most  important  interlinear 
entry  Shakespeare  adds,  '  I  gyve  unto  my  wiefe  my 
second  best  bed  with  the  furniture.'  This  was  prob- 
ably the  bed  on  which  she  habitually  slept,  and  the 
afterthought  of  assigning  it  to  her  as  her  own  has 
^,  been  strangely  construed  as  indicative,   on 

second-  the  part  of  her  husband,  of  an  intentional 
slight.  The  best  or  '  spare  '  bed,  with  all 
the  other  furnishings  of  New  Place,  except  the  j^late, 
go  to  Susanna  Hall  and  her  husband,  who  will  re- 
move to  New  Place,  and  presumably  care  for  their 
mother  there.  The  transaction  was  not  unlike  what 
was  done  frequently  in  wills.  Anne  Shakespeare  was 
then  sixty  years  old,  and  probably  incapable  of  much 
activity  in  affairs.  From  ill  nutrition,  unhygienic 
living,  and  other  causes,  men  and  wOmen  were  in 
general  as  old  at  forty,  in  those  times,  as  at  sixty  now. 
Anne  Shakespeare,  moreover,  except  in  the  Black- 
friars  property,  was  entitled  to  dower,  and  one-third 
of  Shakespeare's  realty  in  and  about  Stratford  would 
insure,  for  a  plain  woman,  in  any  case,  much  more 
than  a  liberal  support.  Prefixed  to  the  last  signature 
of  the  will,  which  is  subscribed  three  times,  are  the 
words  '  By  me,'  the  only  ones  believed  to  be  extant, 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  2// 

except  his  own  name,  from  the  hand  of  Shakespeare. 
Two  other  authenticated  signatures  are  preserved  in 
documents  connected  with  the  transfer  of  the  Black- 
friars  property. 

Shakespeare,  as  the  owner  of  the  tithes  of  Strat- 
ford, was  entitled  to  burial  in  the  chancel- of  the  parish 
church,  and  here  his  grave  is  shown  to-day.  The  slab 
covering  it  bears  the  famous  inscription,  according  to 
one  tradition  composed,  according  to  another  selected, 
by  the  poet  himself  :  — 

GOOD  FREND  FOR  lESVS  SAKE  FORBEARE, 
TO  DIGG  THE  DVST  ENCLOASED  HEARE. 
BLESE  BE  YE  MAN  YT  SPARES  THES  STONES, 
AND  CVRST  BE  HE  YT  MOVES  MY  BONES. 

The  explanation  of  such  an  unworthy  sentiment  may 
lie  in  the  fear,  said  to  have  been  entertained  by 
Shakespeare,  lest  his  bones  should  be  in  TheStrat- 
later  time  removed  to  the  charnel  house.  ^°^^  t""^*- 
A  few  years  after  the  burial,  a  life-size  bust  of  the 
poet  was  cut  in  London,  and  placed  on  the  wall  near 
the  grave.  It  is  believed  to  have  been  made  from 
a  death  mask,  and  probably  preserves  the  main 
characteristics  of  the  poet's  face.  The  pose,  how- 
ever, is  aggressive  and  striking,  and  seems  at  war 
with  everything  that  Shakespeare's  presence  could 
be  imagined  to  suggest.  On  a  tablet  beneath  the 
cushion  is  an  inscription  that  somewhat  redeems  the 
rudely-cut  Hnes,  already  quoted,  upon  the  slab  above 
the  grave  :  — 


2/8  WHAT   IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

IVDICIO  PYLIVM,  GENIO  SOCRATEM,  ARTE  MARONEM, 
TERRA  TEGIT,  POPVLVS  M^ERET,  OLYMPVS  HABET 

STAY  PASSENGER,  WHY  GOEST  THOV  BY  SO  FAST  ? 
READ    IF    THOV    CANST,    WHOM    ENVIOVS     DEATH     HATH 

PLAST, 
WITH  IN  THIS  MONVMENT  SHAKSPEARE  :    WITH  WHOME, 
QVICK    NATVRE     DIDE  :     WHOSE     NAME     DOTH    DECK    YS 

TOMBE, 
FAR  MORE,  THEN  COST  :    SIEH  ALL  YT  HE  HATH  WRITT, 
LEAVES  LIVING  ART,  BVT  PAGE,  TO  SERVE  HIS  WITT. 

obiit  anno  doi  i6l6 
aetatis  53  die  23  ap. 

The  expense  of  this  memorial,  which  was  not 
small,  is  said  to  have  been  borne  by  his  older  daughter. 
That  she  was  a  favourite  of  her  father  is  evident  from 
the  provisions  of  his  will,  of  which  she  and  her  hus- 
band. Dr.  Hall,  were  named  executors.  She  must 
have  inherited  something  of  her  father's  mental 
superiority,  or  her  marriage  to  a  man  of  unusual  in- 
telligence and  cultivation  could  scarcely  be  explained. 
Her  goodness  also  was  conspicuous,  — 

Witty  above  her  sexe,  but  that's  not  all. 
Wise  to  Salvation  was  good  Mistris  Hall  ; 
Something  of  Shakespere  was  in  that,  but  this 
Wholy  of  Him  with  whom  she's  now  in  blisse, — 

if  we  are  to  trust  the  first  lines  of  her  epitaph.  Both 
she  and  her  husband  are  known  to  have  been  of 
Puritan  sympathies. 

Although  the  Stratford  bust  is  crude  and  inartistic, 
the  work  of  a  monument  maker  and  not  a  statuary, 


I 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  279 

it  has  served  as  our  best  means  of  knowing  how 
Shakespeare  looked.  It  was  at  first  coloured,  after 
a  fashion  of  the  times,  in  order  to  represent  the  eyes, 
hair,  complexion,  and  clothing  as  nearly  as  possible 
to  the  real.  In  1793  the  whole  figure  was  painted 
white  in  imitation  of  marble.  In  1861  this  coat  of 
paint  was  removed,  and  the  original  colouring  restored, 
showing  the  hair  and  beard  to  have  been  auburn-hued, 
and  the  eyes,  light  hazel.  Besides  this  bust  nothing 
authentic  was  for  a  long  time  known  to  exist  except 
the    Droeshout   likeness,    made  by    Martin 

^  TheDroes- 

Droeshout,  and  set  on  the  title-page  of  the  hout  paint- 
Folio  of  1623.  This  picture  was  praised  '"S- 
by  Jonson,  and  though  mechanical  and  forced  is  be- 
lieved to  exhibit  approximately  the  proportion  of 
Shakespeare's  features.  In  1892  the  painting  from 
which  Droeshout  probably  made  his  plate  was  dis- 
covered in  a  suburb  of  London.  While  there  are 
reasons  for  suspecting  that  the  painting  may  have 
been  made,  near  the  beginning  of  the  last  century  or 
earlier,  from  the  engraving,  it  is  the  confident  opinion 
of  experts  that  the  world  has  recovered  a  genuine  por- 
trait of  the  author,  painted  from  life,  and  at  the  date 
1609,  which  the  picture  bears.  An  uncle  of  Martin 
Droeshout,  the  engraver,  and  of  the  same  name,  is 
known  to  have  emigrated  to  England  from  Brabant 
in  1608,  and  to  have  been  a  painter.  Because  of 
certain  marks  of  the  Flemish  school,  seen  in  the 
portrait,  it  has  been  supposed  that  this  man  must 
have  been  the  artist.  The  engraving  seems  clearly 
a  cramped  and  mechanical  attempt  to  reproduce  the 


280  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

painting.  Of  other  portraits  claimed  to  be  likenesses 
of  Shakespeare,  there  is  no  authentic  study  of  the 
living  model,  and  all  are  at  variance  with  the 
Droeshout  work. 

In  1623  Anne  Hathaway,  Shakespeare's  widow, 
died,  and  was  buried  within  the  chancel  of  Stratford 
church.  In  the  same  year  the  First  Folio,  the  earliest 
collection  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  was  brought  out 
under  the  editorship  of  Hemmings  and  Condell,  two 
of  the  actor  friends  named  in  his  will.  In  1632,  1663, 
and  1685  the  Second,  the  Third,  and  the  Fourth  Folio 
appeared  respectively.  Of  Shakespeare's  daughters, 
Susanna  lived  till  1649,  and  Judith  till  1662.  None  of 
Judith's  children  survived  her.  Elizabeth,  daughter 
of  Susanna,  was  the  only  grandchild  of  Shakespeare 
that  reached  maturity.  She  was  twice  married,  but 
brought  her  grandfather,  who  is  reported  to  have  been 
very  fond  of  her,  no  inheritors  of  his  fame.  She  died 
childless  in  1670. 

It  seems  remarkable  that  Shakespeare,  though 
indubitably  a  great  genius,  should  have  shown  from 
The  sane-  ^^st  to  last  no  tracc  of  the  erratic  and  un- 
ness  of  practical  temper  supposed  to  belong  to  all 
speare's  i^cn  of  his  sort.  Various  financial  dealings, 
™"^'^-  some  of  them  unmentioned  in  this  sketch, 

show  him  to  have  been  anchored  beyond  the  dream- 
side  of  existence,  and  to  have  divined  business  chances 
as  readily  and  unerringly  as  the  proper  construction 
"of  a  play.  He  seems  to  have  been  singularly  free 
from  illicit  attachments,  to  which  genius  is  especially 
liable.     He  chafed  sometimes,  if  we  may  believe  his 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  28 1 

one  hundred  and  eleventh  sonnet,  at  his  vocation  of  a 
player.  He  was  undoubtedly  as  upright  and  pure  as 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,  a  man  admittedly  much  better  than 
his  generation.  It  is  clear  that  he  grew  away  from  his 
wife,  and  perhaps  found  little  pleasure  in  the  society 
of  his  younger  daughter.  But  there  was  no  educa- 
tion for  women  in  those  days ;  the  plodding  wit  could 
not  quicken  itself  by  learning.  He  was  kindly  and 
fond  of  companions.  It  would  seem  that  he  was  no 
respecter  of  persons  ;  his  plays  show  him  inclined 
to  satirise  the  pretensions  of  rank.  The  traditions 
concerning  Shakespeare's  conviviality  and  carousing 
do  not  at  their  worst  prove  him  different  from  the 
first  men  of  his  day.  Sixteenth-century  tastes  and 
morals  were  low  at  best,  and  present  ideals  that 
temperance  reforms  have  brought  are  not  a  hundred 
years  old  as  yet.  There  is  much  that  is  significant 
in  Shakespeare's  life  to  those  who  have  found  the 
man  in  his  work.  To  others  the  facts  concerning 
his  career  will  seem  but  mutilated  and  empty  annals. 
There  is  much  that  may  be  discerned  in  his  biography, 
beyond  what  is  attempted  here,  by  the  complete 
student  of  his  mind  and  work. 

Whether  the  man  who  wrote  the  plays  called 
Shakespeare's  was  the  Shakespeare  whose  career 
we  have  been  following,  is  still  doubted  by  some  in- 
genious and  patient  readers.  It  would  seem,  accord- 
ing to  the  opinion  of  these  good  people,  that  the 
burden  of  proof  has  shifted,  and  that  those  who  do 
not  accept  the  theory  that  Bacon  wrote  the  plays 
must  explain  how  Shakespeare,  without   knowledge 


282  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

or  education,  could  have  produced  them.  To 
assume  that  William  Shakespeare,  of  Stratford- 
upon-Avon,  could  not  have  written  the  plays  that 
The  Bacon  bear  his  name,  is  to  predicate  stricter  limita- 
question.  tions  of  gcnius  in  this  case  than  are  admitted 
in  other  departments  of  the  world's  work.  Shake- 
speare's task  in  making  the  English  drama  was  not 
greater  than  Giotto's  in  making  the  art  of  south- 
ern Europe,  and  his  discipline  was  not  less  ample. 
Sophocles  produced  the  best  dramas  of  classic  time 
without  other  preparation  than  reading  the  plays 
that  ^schylus  wrote.  Shakespeare  had  only  the 
works  of  Greene  and  Peele  and  Lyly  as  exemplars, 
but  he  saw  how  their  weakness  could  be  made 
strength.  This  seeing,  this  vision,  is  all  that  distin- 
guishes genius  from  plodding  minds.  Schools  do 
not  produce  vision ;  they  dispense  the  products  of  it. 
We  must  not  set  bounds  to  the  seer's  seeing.  We 
cannot  presume  to  know  the  degree  to  which  the 
faith  of  an  Hermione,  the  integrity  of  a  Juliet,  or 
the  beauty  of  an  Arthur  or  a  Mamillius  reveal  them- 
selves in  the  soul  of  Shakespeare.  With  this  power 
of  seeing,  Mozart  composes  minuets  and  performs 
them  at  sight  when  he  is  but  four  years  old.  The 
present  writer  once  knew  of  an  ignorant  Irish 
woman,  unable  to  read  or  write,  who  solved  abstruse 
mathematical  problems  intuitively.  There  are  num- 
berless instances,  among  the  ranks  of  the  uneducated, 
of  feats  similar;  and  it  is  by  no  means  clear  that 
Shakespeare's  achievements  really  surpass  these  ac- 
cepted marvels. 


SHAKESPEARE  THE   MAN  283 

On  the  other  hand,  if  Bacon  or  some  other  man  of 
learning  wrote  the  poems  and  plays  called  Shake- 
speare's, we  should  expect  to  find  many  things  not 
present,  and  not  to  find  many  things  that  are  pres- 
ent, in  his  works.  If  the  author  of  Cynibeline  had 
been  expertly  trained  in  Latin  quantities,  could  he 
have  made  the  stress  in  Posthumus  fall  upon  the 
second  syllable  ?  If  he  knew  classic  instances  and 
parallels,  would  he  not  have  used  them  ?  But  the 
man  who  wrote  the  works  called  Shakespeare's  was 
plainly  shut  off  from  the  world  of  books,  except 
Holinshed,  Plutarch,  and  Montaigne,  and  what  the 
pupil  of  Stratford  Free  School  might  be  expected  to 
have  reached  an  acquaintance  with.  The  only  classi- 
cal learning  exhibited  in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  is 
embodied  in  quotations  from  the  Accidence,  Sententice 
Ptieriles,  Lily's  Latin  Grammar  and  the  Eclogues  of 
Mantuanus,  which  were  used  in  the  schools  of  the 
day.  It  is  hardly  hkely  that  a  man  who  had  read 
Latin  at  Cambridge  would  quote  a  passage  from  Ter- 
ence, as  the  author  of  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  does 
certainly,  in  the  incorrect  form  that  appears  in  Lily's 
Grammar.  The  person  who  did  that  had  pretty 
certainly  never  seen  Terence  in  the  standard  text. 
There  are  besides  many  anachronisms  and  uncon- 
sidered references,  such  as  making  Galen  to  have 
lived  before  the  times  of  Coriolanus,  and  putting 
allusions  to  the  bulls  of  Bashan  into  the  mouth  of 
Antony,  which  are  inconsistent  with  good  scholar- 
ship and  a  well-trained  mind.  Bacon  could  have  had 
no  motive  to  conceal  his  reading.     If  Bacon  wrote 


284  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

under  the  disguise  of  Shakespeare's  name,  the  ex- 
pedient would  have  succeeded  no  less  completely 
than  it  has  succeeded,  had  the  plays  been  as  full  of 
learning  as  Ben  Jonson's. 

So  we  are  forced  back  to  the  position  of  demand- 
ing, if  the  Bacon  question  must  still  be  argued,  that 
the  advocates  of  the  theory  accept  fully  the  burden 
of  proof.  We  are  all  anxious  to  know  the  truth,  and 
have  no  least  willingness  to  crown  a  mistaken  master. 
When  Bacon  shall  have  been  proved  the  author  of 
Cynibeline,  and  The  Wi7tte7''s  Talc,  and  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  and  of  Macbeth,  all  lovers  of  the  plays  before 
called  Shakespeare's  will  rejoice  to  right  a  wrong, 
and  give  unwilling  merit  its  full  due. 


VII 

GROUPINGS  OF  THE   PLAYS 

Ben  Jonson,  in  his  Timber  or  Discoveries  Made  upon 
Men  and  Matter^  remarks  concerning  Shakespeare 
thus  :  *  I  remember,  the  players  have  often  mentioned 
it  as  an  honour  to  Shakespeare  that,  in  his  writing, 
whatsoever  he  penn'd,  hee  never  blotted  out  line. 
My  answer  hath  beene,  would  he  had  blotted  a  thou- 
sand. .  .  .  His  wit  was  in  his  ownc  power;  —  would 
the  rule  of  it  had  beene  so  too  !  Many  times  hee  fell 
into  those  things,  could  not  escape  laughter;  as  when 
hee  said  in  the  person  of  Caesar,  one  speaking  to 
him, — CcBsar  tJiou  dost  me  wrong;  hee  re-  shake- 
ply  ed,  —  Ccesar  did  never  wrong  but  with  just  ^^g  ^ciassl*- 
cause ;  and  such  like ;  which  were  ridicu-  cists, 
lous.'  Of  course  there  is  no  such  reading  in  the 
present  text  of  Julius  Cccsar,  and  probably  was  not 
when  Jonson  wrote.  The  Folio  of  1623,  the  first  col- 
lected edition  of  Shakespeare's  dramas,  contains  the 
only  extant  form  of  the  piece,  and  must  have  been 
issued  before  that  time.  Jonson  aided  in  the  publi- 
cation of  the  Folio,  and  should  have  known  how  the 
lines  (III.  i.  47,  48)  referred  to  ran.  We  fancy  that 
we  catch  a  note  of  envy  in  his  words.  It  is  likely 
enough  that  Shakespeare  knew  little  of  the  art  of 
polishing,  and  perhaps  but  partially  understood  the 

28s 


286  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

need.  It  seems  certain  that  he  wrote  with  remarkable 
fluency,  being  never  bothered  for  a  word.  Jonson's 
utterance  voices  the  criticism  of  the  classicists,  who 
find  everywhere  too  great  latitude  and  liberty  of  dic- 
tion. If  he  could  have  written  like  Jonson  himself, 
he  would  not  have  pleased  his  critics,  for  there  were 
no  classical  standards  as  yet.  No  man  has  ever  been 
great  enough  —  save  Dante  —  to  shape  the  taste  of  a 
whole  people.  Shakespeare's  plays  were  profounder 
than  any  others,  and  were  cast  in  loftier  language,  yet 
were  easier  to  read.  His  success,  like  Bunyan's,  came 
from  the  commoner  sort  of  folk.  No  writer  was 
ever  more  available  to  thoughtful,  discerning  minds, 
whether  educated  or  not,  than  he. 

It  is  often  remarked,  as  derogatory  to  Shakespeare, 
that  he  borrowed  his  plots,  and  was  therefore  un- 
shake-  Original.  To  be  original  is  to  see  to  the 
borrowed  bottom  of  things ;  it  is  not  merely  to  com- 
piots.  pass  unique  sayings.      Shakespeare  surely 

saw  first  principles  as  profoundly  as  any  thinker  who 
has  left  record  of  himself.  The  seer  who  under- 
stands all  social  phenomena,  does  not  need  to  create 
the  data  or  circumstances  that  he  would  explain. 
The  man  who  knows  life,  will  not  manufacture  texts 
by  which  to  preach  its  lessons.  The  greater  includes 
the  less.  Shakespeare  was  certainly  capable  of  creat- 
ing a  new  plot  for  every  play.  Being  a  busy  man, 
and  writing,  as  he  supposed,  for  his  own  generation, 
and  not  for  posterity,  he  was  willing  to  minimise  his 
labour. 

Many  attempts    have    been    made    to    divide   the 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  287 

works  of  Shakespeare  into  definite  and  well-marked 
groups,  answering  to  specific  periods  of  Divisions 
development,  but  with  only  partial  success,  ofthepiays. 
By  all  such  classifications,  Romeo  and  Juliet  must  be 
parted  too  far  from  Cymbeline.  The  division  of 
the  Folio  into  comedies,  histories,  and  tragedies  is 
serviceable,  but  not  final,  since  the  histories  are  in 
strictness  either  tragical  or  comedial  in  their  nature. 
From  interior  reasons  it  is  well  to  consider  Shake- 
speare's work  provisionally  under  the  heads  of  Incident 
Plays,  Persojial  Plays,  and  Moral  Plays.  These  di- 
visions are  not  chronological,  and  do  not  at  all  fol- 
low the  course  of  development  in  the  author's  mind. 
Among  Incident  Plays,  in  which  incidents  are  the 
chief  dramatic  basis  of  treatment,  are  to  be  reckoned 
Titus  Andronicns,  Comedy  of  Eri'ors,  Midsiimmer 
Nighfs  Dream.,  and  TJie  Tempest.  In  the  second 
group  belong  typically  Richard  III,  Henry  V,  and  in- 
deed most  of  the  so-called  histories,  with  Merchant  of 
Venice,  Twelfth  Night,  Mnch  Ado,  and  Cymbeli7ie.  In 
each  of  these  dramas  the  interest  centres  in  some  cer- 
tain personality,  as  Shy  lock,  Viola,  Imogen,  and 
this  personahty  is  presented  and  treated  for  its  own 
sake.  Under  Moral  Plays  are  to  be  classed  Macbeth, 
Coriolamis,  Romeo  a7id  Jtiliet,  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
Othello,  and  King  Lear.  In  these  character  is  not 
treated,  as  in  Richard  III,  chiefly  and  finally  for  its 
own  sake.  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth  and  King 
Lear  are  portrayed  to  us,  not  for  what  they  are,  but 
for  what  can  be  wrought  from  their  potencies  and 
postulates  of  character. 


288  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

It  is  difficult  to  suggest  a  better  division  for  the 
practical  student,  at  least  in  his  earlier  studies  of 
Twoprinci-  Shakespeare's  plays.  Much  labour  has  been 
pal  periods,  spent  in  showing  that  this  author  passed 
through  several  stages  of  technical  improvement  in 
his  blank  verse  and  other  details  of  form.  All  the 
results  are  interesting,  as  proving  the  soundness  and 
sufficiency  of  Shakespeare's  mind,  but  are  not  par- 
ticularly satisfying  to  those  still  seeking  acquaintance 
and  fellowship  with  that  mind.  There  can  be  no 
question  that  Shakespeare  grew  in  facility  and  power 
of  utterance.  There  is  no  evidence  that  he  grew  in 
wisdom,  or  in  knowledge  of  human  nature,  or  indeed 
in  art.  It  is  well  to  reahse  that  in  plays  of  a  certain 
early  period  he  is  much  conditioned  in  his  paragraphs 
by  the  form,  and  that  his  characters  tend  to  talk  in 
a  constant  dialect  which  is  clearly  the  author's  and 
not  their  own.  Later,  after  a  certain  point,  the  speech 
of  the  characters  is  largely  differentiated,  and  such 
mastery  is  reached  over  metre  and  other  elements  of 
form  as  to  enhance  by  them  rather  than  reduce  the 
sum  of  power.  We  may  recognise  generically  a  stage 
of  preparation  and  a  period  of  maturity  and  strength. 
Twelfth  Night  and  The  Merehatit  of  Venice  mark  this 
zenith  of  technique  in  the  comedies ;  Hamlet  marks 
it  in  the  tragedies.  To  go  further  than  this  is  to 
go  outside  the  evident  and  universal  characteristics 
of  Shakespeare's  work.  How  valueless  chronologic 
grounds  have  proved  in  the  classification  is  seen 
from  the  circumstance  that  Julius  Ccssar  is  held  to 
have  been   produced  next   to  Hamlet,  yet  does  not 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  289 

belong  in  the  same  rank  of  development  with  that 
play. 

It  has  been  the  opinion  of  some  excellent  scholars 
that    Shakespeare's    work    followed    closely    certain 
attitudes  and  preoccupations  of    his  mind ;   ^.y^^  . 
that  at  one  time  he  was  depressed  and  pessi-  simistic* 
mistic,  probably  from  wrongs ;    and  that  the  ^'^^^' 
great   tragedies,   as  Macbeth,  Hamlet,  Othello,  Lear, 
dating  from  this  period,  are  shadowed  with  his  doubt 
and  weighted  with  his  suffering.     It  would  be  helpful 
if  we  could  penetrate  Shakespeare's  reserve  to  the 
extent  of  finding  with  certainty  any  personal  mood  or 
weakness  mingled  with  his  work.     But  it  seems  impos- 
sible to  be  sure  of  any  such  subjectivity.     It  is  true 
that  his  last  three  plays,  Cymbeline,  Winter's  Tale,  and 
The   Tempest,  are  optimistic  ;  but  it  is  not    Troihis 
safe    to    assume    that    Othello   or   Macbeth  ''"^  ^''"- 

siaa,  a  play 

would  have  ended  comedially  if  written  like  by  itself. 
them  in  the  last  months  of  his  authorship.  One  play, 
the  Troilus  and  Cressida,  laid  in  times  of  degeneracy, 
when  even  a  Hector's  judgment  is  warped  by  the 
blandishments  of  a  Helen,  is  wanting  in  noble  ele- 
ments, and  stands  by  itself.  There  is  the  same  spirit 
in  the  earlier  dramas  as  in  the  latest ;  Viola  is  treated 
as  tenderly  as  Imogen.  In  the  heavy  tragedies  of 
the  so-called  pessimistic  period  we  can  discern  the 
same  governing  faith  and  compelling  optimism,  and 
the  same  redeeming  or  redeemed  use  of  woman's 
power  as  we  have  been  contemplating  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet  and  The  Winter  s  Tale,  or  may  find  in  every 
other  stage  of  the  poet's  work,  and  in  scarcely  less 
u 


290  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

degree.     Hamlet  and  King  Lear  will  perhaps  yield 
proof  most  easily. 

The  notion  that  Hamlet  lacked  energy  and  deci- 
sion of  character  has  been  held  by  many  critics,  but 
Hamlet's  it  would  secm  with  too  great  deference  to 
scruples.  ^-^g  authority  of  first  expounders.  Of  course 
the  revenge  called  for  by  the  Ghost,  if  carried  out 
summarily,  would  make  Hamlet  King  of  Denmark. 
Hamlet,  from  faihng  to  remember  or  understand  the 
terms  of  his  commission,  '  Howsoever  thou  pursuest 
this  act,  taint  not  thy  mind,'  apparently  believes  him- 
self required  to  strike  down  the  King  immediately  on 
sight.  The  intent  of  his  father's  words  is  plain ;  they 
give  him  the  largest  Hberty  as  to  place  and  time,  and 
forbid  expressly  that  he  incur  the  censure  of  his  con- 
science or  his  self-respect.  To  escape  the  wounded 
name  of  having  killed  his  uncle  to  gain  the  throne, 
as  all  the  world,  in  default  of  absolute  evidence  con- 
cerning his  father's  death,  will  hold  him  responsible 
for  doing,  he  thinks  (HI.  i.  56-88)  of  suicide.  He 
will  run  the  King  through  with  his  rapier,  then 
destroy  himself.  Since  his  father's  demand  for  ven- 
geance, which  was  a  royal,  not  a  domestic  or  a  per- 
sonal, requisition,  he  has  been  in  constant  practice 
(V.  ii.  221)  with  his  sword.  He  has  set  honestly 
about  the  business  of  cleansing  the  throne  of  Den- 
mark. He  recognised  (I.  v.  189,  190)  at  the  outset  the 
national  character  of  his  commission, — 

The  time  is  out  of  joint.     O  cursed  spite, 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right ! 

He  realises  now  that  it  will  cost  him  either  his  honour 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE   PLAYS  29 1 

or  his  life.  He  naturally  hesitates  in  the  face  of 
such  a  fate;  he  loves  the  life  that  he  feels  he  cannot 
save.  He  delays  the  moment,  and  believes  that  he 
may  fairly  require  further  proof  of  his  uncle's  guilt. 
His  scheme  succeeds ;  the  King  stops  the  play  that 
has  caught  his  conscience.  Hamlet,  in  his  excitement, 
imagines  that  he  may  yet  show  the  King  a  murderer 
to  Denmark.  He  is  tempted  to  despatch  the  culprit 
by  striking  him,  while  praying,  through  the  back  ;  but 
the  unnational,  unprincely  quality  of  the  vengeance 
gives  him  pause.  His  mother  summons  him,  appar- 
ently to  scold  him,  to  her  closet.  He  will  go  straight- 
way and  inflict  on  her  the  bloodless  punishment  due, 
as  he  assumes,  for  complicity  in  his  father's  murder. 

Hitherto  the  Queen  has  been  on  her  husband's 
side.  So  far  as  the  audience  is  concerned,  it  has 
despised  her.  The  author  will  not  send  Hamlet  to 
his  death,  in  spite  of  his  mother's  sin,  without  restor- 
ing her  love  to  him  and  his  to  her.  Further-  The  Queen 
more,  Shakespeare  will  bring  her  to  our  ou°^sym-*° 
sympathies,  and  invest  her  with  unsuspected  pathies. 
strength ;  he  will  turn  her  against  her  husband,  and 
add  immeasurable  pathos  to  the  close  by  her  enthu- 
siasm and  devotion  to  her  son.  He  will  not  wind  up 
the  play  without  making  her  fill,  by  repudiating  her 
former  self,  the  place  of  the  woman  she  should  have 
been.  This  insistent  need  of  a  typic,  genuine  woman- 
hood, even  in  a  play  founded  on  lust  and  murder,  is 
of  the  essence  of  the  optimism  that  we  have  affirmed 
of  Shakespeare. 

Indeed,  the  attempt  to  redeem  Gertrude  to  herself 


292  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

and  to  the  play,  in  the  face  of  what  would  seem 
insuperable  artistic  difficulties,  is  indicative  of  the 
degree  of  Shakespeare's  wish  to  mitigate  the  sin  and 
wrong  with  which  he  was  forced,  for  plot  reasons,  to 
begin  the  piece.  Nowhere  else  in  this  work,  perhaps 
nowhere  else  in  the  other  dramas,  does  he  accomplish 
a  larger  feat.  It  would  take  years,  in  real  life,  to 
bring  about  the  changes  that  are  effected  here  within 
the  compass  of  two  hundred  lines.  The  business 
opens  summarily  (III.  iv)  after  seven  lines  of  con- 
nection with  the  preceding  scene.  '  Now,  mother, 
what's  the  matter,'  says  the  summoned  visitor,  in  a 
How  boyish,  familiar,  unprincely  salutation.     It  is 

Shake-        somc  time,  we  may  be  sure,  since  Hamlet 

speare  re-      ,  ,  ,       ,  ,  .  ,        , 

deems  the  has  bccn  asked  to  come  to  his  mother  s 
Queen.  closct.  '  Hamlet,  thou  hast  thy  father 
much  offended,'  is  the  significant  reply.  This 
tainted  mother  will  essay  to  school  her  son,  his 
father's  avenger.  '  Mother,  you  have  my  father 
much  offended.'  The  retort  makes  her  wince  :  does 
Hamlet  know  ?  But  no  matter ;  there  is  but  one 
thing  to  be  done.  She  must  assume  a  virtue,  if  she 
have  it  not.  *  Come,  come,  you  answer  with  an  idle 
tongue.'  These  words  should  make  him  reahse  his 
impertinence.  But  Hamlet  takes  issue ;  he  has 
indeed  come  with  no  other  purpose  than  to  take 
issue.  So  he  answers  impetuously,  echoing  by  con- 
traries, 'Go,  go,  you  question  with  a  wicked  tongue.' 
The  Queen's  natural  rejoinder  is  surprise,  injured 
innocence,  at  that  word  'wicked,' — 'Why,  how 
now,  Hamlet,  have  ^^om  forgot  me?'      'No,  by  the 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE   PLAYS  293 

rood,  7iot  so.  You  are  the  Queen,  your  husband'' s 
brother's  wife,  and  —  would  it  were  not  so  —  you 
are  my  mother.'  Thus  far  our  sympathies  are  with 
Hainlet.  It  is  time  that  these  things  were  said  to 
the  Queen  by  somebody,  and  we  care  not  if  they  are 
said  to  her  by  her  son. 

Here  the  first  integral  division  of  the  scene  closes. 
The  Queen  is  bound,  of  course,  to  make  a  show  of 
indignation ;  she  starts  forth  vaguely,  per-  „j^^ 
haps  with  the  thought  of  summoning  the  division  of 
King.  'Nay,  then,  I'll  set  those  to  you  ^^^^  ^""^• 
that  can  speak.'  Hamlet  now  takes  his  mother  by 
the  shoulders,  and  thrusts  her  into  a  chair.  '  Come, 
come,  and  sit  you  down ;  you  shall  not  budge ;  you 
go  not  until  I  set  you  up  a  glass  where  you  may  see 
the  inmost  part  of  you.*  Very  natural  is  it  that  this 
woman  should  recoil  from  such  a  programme.  Her 
'  Help,  ho,'  is  echoed  from  behind  the  arras  by 
Polonius,  whom  Hamlet,  hoping  it  is  the  King, 
strikes  down. 

Here  ends  the  second  part  of  this  strange  scene. 
Were  we  present,  we  should  exclaim  against  this  vio- 
lence of  Hamlet  towards  his  mother.  Then  -pj^^  begin- 
we  should  be  immeasurably  awed  by  the  ningofour 
spectacle  of  the  dead  body  lying  at  the  ^  ^"^' 
bottom  of  the  arras.  Death  is  the  great  reformer  of 
prejudice;  and  now,  in  the  sight  of  Polonius  slain, 
we  find  that  we  have  charity  not  only  for  that  man's 
weakness,  but  also  for  the  Queen's.  One  death  has 
made  amends,  in  some  degree,  not  for  him  merely, 
but  for  the  twain  together.    This  is  helped,  moreover, 


294  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

by  the  discovery,  flashed  upon  us  at  this  astounding 
moment,  through  the  Queen's  surprise  at  the  charge 
of  '  kilUng  a  king,'  that  she  was  not  privy  to  her 
husband's  murder.  With  this  beginning,  Hamlet 
goes  on  to  enforce  a  sort  of  spiritual  penance,  not 
without  great  cost  to  himself  as  our  hero,  for  his 
mother.  As  she  stands  aghast,  wringing  her  hands 
in  anguish,  Hamlet  again  forces  her  to  sit,  affirming 
that  he  will  wring  her  heart.  Plainly,  Shakespeare's 
hand  is  heavy  upon  his  hero.  For  the  sake  of  bring- 
ing back  Hamlet  to  his  mother,  who  has  lost  him ;  for 
the  sake  of  having  the  mother  minister  to  the  son  in 
love  and  sympathy  at  the  end  of  the  play;  for  the 
sake  besides  of  bringing  an  erring  woman  back  to 
such  relations  with  society  as  will  enable  her  love  and 
sacrifice  for  her  son  to  have  influence  with  us,  Shake- 
speare will  make  the  son  harsh  and  brutal  to  his 
mother  here.  At  Hamlet's  first  words  the  Queen 
retreats  again  behind  the  prerogative  of  her  sex, — 
'  What  have  /  done,  that  thou  darest  wag  thy  tongue 
in  noise  so  rude  against  me.-*'  His  answer  is  as  near 
to  the  suggestion  of  her  guilt  as  he  dare  go,  or  as  the 
author  can  artistically  permit :  — 

Such  an  act 
That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty, 
Calls  virtue  hypocrite,  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love 
And  sets  a  blister  there,  makes  marriage  vows 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths. 

The  Queen  refuses  to  admit  that  she  understands  this 
language.     '  Ay  me,'  she  says,  — 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE   PLAYS  295 

Whai  act 
That  roars  so  loud  and  thunders  in  the  index  ? 

It  were  indeed  unseemly  that  a  royal  mother  —  this 
royal  mother,  who  is  to  be  restored  to  the  love  and 
devotion  of  her  son  —  should  go  in  definiteness  much 
beyond.  Hamlet  is  made  to  refrain  from  answering 
her  question.  The  author  turns  him  aside,  in  the 
declamation  beginning,  we  shall  remember,  — 

Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this, 
The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers, — 

into  a  tirade  against  her  present  husband,  not  alto- 
gether relevant  to  the  indictment  which  Hamlet  has 
been  pressing.     At  its  close  the  Queen  cries  out :  — 

O  Hamlet,  speak  no  more ! 
Thou  turn'st  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul, 
And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots 
As  will  not  leave  their  tinct. 

Here  ends  the  third  division,  the  third  stage,  in  this 
closet  interview.  Our  feelings  of  dislike  and  revul- 
sion have  changed  to  surprise,  and  something  like 
concern,  as  we  see  the  marks  of  contrition  in  the  face 
of  the  Queen,  and  hear  her  words  of  confession  to 
her  son.  Yet  it  is  only  to  us  and  for  our  sake  dra- 
matically that  she  admits  the  consciousness  of  wrong. 
We  begin  to  realise  what  the  task  is  which  Shake- 
speare has  here  set  himself.  If  this  were  life,  we 
should  be  content  to  part  company  here  and  thus 
with  the  Queen,  to  wish  her  no  evil,  and  to  ihe  stage 
forget  her  existence.  But  this  is  not  the  end,  o^  p'*/- 
nor  even  yet  the  middle  of  the  scene ;  there  are  still 


296  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

large  changes  to  be  wrought  within  our  sympathies. 
The  means  first  used  is  pity.  Hamlet  is  made  to  go 
on  scurrilously,  beyond  all  reason,  first  by  implica- 
tion against  her  who  sits  aghast  and  trembling,  — 

Nay,  but  to  live  .  . 
Stewed  in  corruption,  — 

to  which  the  Queen  can  only  cry  out,  breaking  in 
upon  his  violence  :  — 

Oh,  speak  to  me  no  more ! 
These  words  like  daggers  enter  in  my  ears. 
No  more,  sweet  Hamlet. 

This  has  indeed  gone  too  far.  Will  he  drive  her 
crazy }  She  is  no  longer  at  war  with  conscience,  is 
no  longer  indignant  at  the  voice  that  is  caUing  her  to 
account.  But  he  has  put  himself,  as  the  instrument 
of  her  penitence,  wholly  in  the  wrong,  and  now  essays 
to  punish  her.  All  her  pleading,  even  with  her  hands 
stopping  her  ears,  is  of  none  effect.  Were  this  scene 
actual,  we  should  interfere  for  her,  we  should  plead 
in  her  behalf  with  her  against  her  persecutor.  Help- 
less as  she,  we  are  forced  to  listen  as  Hamlet  raves 
on  against  the  King :  — 

A  murtherer  and  a  villain  ; 
A  slave  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  tithe 
Of  your  precedent  lord  ;   a  vice  of  kings  ; 
A  cutpurse  of  the  empire  and  the  rule,  — 
A  king  of  shreds  and  patches. 

The  fourth  stage  in  the  transactions  of  the  scene 
The  fourth  begins  at  this  point.  The  wrong  done  by  the 
stage.  Queen  to  herself  she  feels  and  has  acknow- 

ledged.    The  wrong  done  to  her  dead  husband  re- 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  297 

mains  paramount  in  our  consciousness.  How  can 
that  be  taken  from  our  thought,  from  the  associations 
of  her  past  ?  The  Ghost  is  brought  in  to  answer. 
Hamlet,  unpersuaded  as  to  his  father's  will,  asks  in 
dismay  whether  he  be  not  come  to  chide  his  tardy 
son,  that  lets  go  by  the  important  acting  of  his  dread 
command.  The  Ghost  makes  but  a  perfunctory  and 
evasive  answer,  —  '  Do  not  forget,'  —  as  if  Hamlet, 
whose  soul  is  full  of  the  obligation  to  revenge,  whose 
days  and  nights  have  been  chafed  and  fevered  at  the 
delay,  at  whose  feet  lies  even  now  the  dead  body  of 
Polonius,  slain  because  mistaken  for  the  King,  could 
have  forgotten.  Then  the  real  concern  of  this 
shadowy  visitant,  which  he  conceals  for  obvious  rea- 
sons from  his  son,  is  betrayed.  He  has  come,  from 
old  love  of  the  Queen,  to  stop  her  punishment.  He 
will  not  reveal  himself  to  Jicr;  remorse  might  destroy 
her  life.  He  would  save  her  all  further  suffering,  if 
he  may,  even  of  the  thorns  that  prick  and  sting  her 
in  her  bosom.  With  majestic  tenderness  he  turns 
Hamlet's  eyes  to  the  spectacle  that  they  have  too 
little  regarded  hitherto.  '  Look,  amazement  (distrac- 
tion) on  thy  mother  sits.  Take  her  part  against  her 
other  self,  which  condemns  her  for  her  sin.  Her 
imagination  has  been  too  much  wrought  upon  al- 
ready. Speak  to  her,  as  thou  shouldst,  in  kindness 
and  sympathy.'  There  can  be  no  mistaking  the 
spirit  or  the  purpose  of  this  rebuke ;  Hamlet  should 
have  remembered  that  he  is  forbidden  (I.  v.  85,  86) 
to  contrive  against  his  mother  aught.  At  the  first 
apparition  of  the  Ghost,  in  the  first  act,  Hamlet  showed 


298  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

little  fear.  His  present  fright  seems  to  mark  how 
deeply  he  feels  that  he  is  in  the  wrong. 

When  an  injured  husband  forgives,  the  rest  of  the 
world  drops  the  matter.  So  we  here  and  now  drop 
_,  the  cause  of   the  elder  Hamlet,  as  against 

The  " 

Ghost's  for-  Gertrude,  from  our  thought.  Moreover,  the 
giveness.  yoice  of  love  and  forgiveness  that  we  have 
heard  is  a  voice  from  the  other  world,  speaking  with 
other  than  the  authority  of  men.  The  Ghost  tarries 
to  make  sure  that  Hamlet  does  '  speak '  to  her, 
indeed,  but  not  in  the  former  way,  and  look  upon  her, 
not  as  an  avenger,  but  a  reconciled  son.  Satisfied 
that  his  stern  rebuke  is  heeded,  that  there  will  be  no 
more  harsh  words,  he  goes  his  way.  At  the  moment 
when  the  Queen  recovers  her  self-possession,  finding 
Hamlet  as  she  thinks  distracted,  she  is  restored  to  her 
former  self,  redeemed,  and  she  carries  the  audience 
and  the  reader  with  her. 

Now  comes  the  next  step  in  the  plan.  What  of 
the  future  of  the  Queen  ?  Shall  she  live  still  with 
The  fifth  the  paramour  who  killed  Hamlet's  father  .!* 
step.  Were  she  to  presume  this,  or  seem  to  pre- 

sume it,  the  presumption  would  be  fatal  to  the  pur- 
pose that  Shakespeare  has  thus  far  attempted.  Of 
course,  under  all  the  circumstances,  since  Gertrude 
cannot  know  of  the  vengeance  awaiting  Claudius, 
she  must  continue  to  be  Queen  of  Denmark,  and 
wife  to  Hamlet's  uncle.  But  how  shall  the  author 
make  us  see  this  and  realise  it  in  such  a  way  that, 
from  this  time,  we  shall  be  no  more  scandahsed  at 
the  thought.     To  have  Hamlet  discuss  the  question. 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE   PLAYS  299 

and  affirm  to  his  mother  that  it  were  right  and  well 
so  to  do,  might  be  Ben  Jonson,  or  Otway,  or  Colley 
Cibber,  but  it  would  not  be  Shakespeare.  To  him 
there  is  apparently  but  one  way,  though  he  be  again 
compelled  to  levy  injuriously  upon  his  hero.  Hamlet 
is  made,  sentimentally  and  absurdly,  to  urge  upon  his 
mother  the  very  opposite  course :  advice  which  he 
does  not  seem  to  remember  afterwards,  and  advice 
which  he  surely  did  not  mean.  He  knew  that  his 
mother  could  not  cease  to  be  wife  to  the  King  even 
if  she  would,  and  that  her  contrition  is  not  sufficient 
to  prompt  her  immuring  herself  behind  convent  walls, 
even  if  she  could.  The  situation  is  clear  to  us,  and 
its  effect  on  us  complete,  when  we  hear  Hamlet  bid 
his  mother  '  go  not  to  his  uncle's  bed.' 

The  author  is  ready  for  another  step.  The  mother 
and  her  son  are  restored  to  each  other.  Her  feeling 
toward  him  and  his  feeling  toward  her  The  Queen 
are  such  as  have  not  been  since   he  came  ^L^u" 

with   Ham- 
back  from  Wittenberg.     What  shall  be  their  let. 

relations  hereafter .''     Shall  she  stand  with  the  King, 

as  hitherto,  against  her  son,  or  against  the  King  and 

on  Hamlet's  side  .''     With  her  woman's  intuition  she 

now  knows  that  Hamlet  the  elder  has  been  murdered, 

and  that   Hamlet  the   younger   cannot  make   peace 

with  the  King.      Moreover,  there  can  be  no  pathos  at 

the  close  of  the  play,  if  Hamlet  have  not  his  mother's 

love  entire  and  fully.     But  how  are  we  to  know  of 

this    alliance    apart   from     what    we    see    hereafter.'* 

Hamlet  in    playful    irony    bids    his    mother   let   the 

King  coax  from  her    his  secret,  namely,  that  he  is 


300  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

essentially  not  in  madness,  but  mad  in  craft.  Her 
answer  is  unequivocal,  the  most  motherly  and  unaf- 
fected thing  she  has  said  thus  far  in  the  play :  — 

Be  thou  assured,  if  words  be  made  of  breath, 
And  breath  of  life,  I  have  no  life  to  breathe 
What  thou  hast  said  to  me. 

There  is  yet  another  integral  part  of  the  scene  to 
be  developed.  Hamlet  believes  again  in  his  mother; 
Proof  of  the  instincts  to  confide  in  her  as  his  best 
Hamlet's  friend  possess  him  again  just  as  in  youth 
trusHn  the  ^^^  boyhood,  when  he  told  her  his  ills,  his 
Queen.  hopes,  his  projects.  He  is  now  made  to 
give  proof  of  his  new  and  perfect  trust.  He  is  in 
possession  of  the  King's  secrets.  The  young  nobility, 
or  some  of  them,  are  apparently  in  league  for  his 
defence.  Through  some  agency  of  theirs  the  know- 
ledge of  the  mandate,  in  the  sealed  letters,  has  been 
communicated  to  Hamlet.  The  purpose  of  the 
King  he  will,  by  the  aid  of  friends,  forestall ;  for  he 
is  utterly  powerless  alone.  The  King  manifestly  does 
not  dare  touch  Hamlet  upon  the  soil  of  Denmark. 
Seemingly  in  fear  of  an  uprising,  he  keeps  his  court 
still  in  Kronberg,  or  the  Marienlist  palace,  on  the 
island  of  Seeland,  away  from  the  capital.  To  with- 
hold from  the  King,  at  such  a  time,  the  least  hint  of 
his  danger,  is  a  supreme  test  of  Gertrude's  new  loy- 
alty to  her  son.  That  Hamlet  intrusts  his  mother 
with  the  knowledge  that  he  can  command  the  King's 
most  secret  counsels,  is  the  strongest  possible  proof 
of  his  renewed  devotion.  With  no  fear  lest  his  con- 
fidence shall  be  betrayed,  with  no  further  exhortation, 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  30I 

this  son,  bidding  his  mother  a  familiar  and  affection- 
ate '  good  night '  that  brings  back  lively  associations 
of  earlier  years,  goes  out  from  the  scene.  He  has 
suffered  some  detriment  as  a  hero,  but  that  shall  be 
repaired ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  both  he  and  the 
play  have  gained  a  mother. 

The  Queen  begins  her  new  role  strongly  at  the 
opening  of  the  next  scene.  She  puts  on  a  profound 
sighing,  and  tells  the  vaHant  falsehoods  that  ^^^ 
Hamlet  is  mad  as  the  sea  and  wind,  and  is  Queen's 
weeping  because  he  has  killed  Polonius.  "^^"^  ^' 
The  King  turns  her  report  to  his  advantage  against 
Hamlet,  at  which  she  sulks,  and  breaks  seemingly 
into  tears.  We  can  hardly  believe  that  her  grief  is 
genuine,  when  we  remember  her  small  concern,  at  the 
end  of  the  last  scene,  about  his  going.  Hitherto  she 
has  never  appeared,  except  in  the  closet  scene,  apart 
from  her  husband.  She  does  not,  except  for  the  fenc- 
ing contest  and  at  the  burial,  come  in  with  him  again. 
She  shows  anxiety  at  Ophelia's  grave  over  Hamlet's 
naive  dealings  with  Laertes,  and  his  forgetting  to  feign 
that  he  is  mad.  Divining  that  the  King  and  Laertes 
are  plotting  mischief,  in  connection  with  the  wager, 
she  sends  word  privately  to  Hamlet  that  he  use  some 
gentle  entertainment  to  Laertes,  before  they  fall  to 
play.  Divining  further,  after  the  fencing  begins,  that 
the  King's  enthusiasm  for  Hamlet  is  ungenuine,  and 
that  it  is  not  intended  that  he  shall  come  out  of  the 
sport  alive,  she  sends  him  her  napkin  for  his  brows, 
and  drinks  excitedly  to  his  success,  resisting  the 
King's  attempt  to  take  the  goblet  from  her.     There 


302  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

is  no  other  way  to  give  him  courage  against  his  en- 
emy, so  she  carouses  to  his  fortune  and  the  King's 
confusion.  She  assists,  and  perhaps  of  purpose, 
Hamlet's  punishment  of  her  husband's  crimes. 

The  play  has  long  been  the  most  popular,  in  part 
because  the  most  enigmatical,  of  all  the  dramas. 
There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  Shakespeare  intended, 
in  the  title  character,  to  propound  a  mystery.  It  is 
doubtful  if  any  of  the  critics  who  have  called  Hamlet 
a  dreamer,  a  palaverer,  or  a  coward,  would  have  been, 
possessing  a  like  sense  of  honour,  less  slow  to  strike. 
They  find  themselves  influenced  most  perhaps  by 
Hamlet's  soliloquy  (IV.  iv.)  over  the  proposed  cam- 
paign of  Fortinbras  in  Poland.  They  find  him  going 
tractably  away  into  indefinite  exile,  far  from  the 
chance  of  vengeance,  yet  breathing  out  all  the  while 
fresh  threatenings  and  slaughter  in  his  father's  name. 
To  have  made  a  hero  who,  at  his  best  of  wisdom  and 
endeavour,  should  resolve  that  '  from  this  time  forth 
his  thoughts  be  bloody  or  be  nothing  worth,'  while  he 
is  actually  expecting  to  be  stayed  at  an  impossible  dis- 
tance from  the  object  of  his  revenge,  would  have  been 
to  make  game  of  the  readers  and  spectators  of  Hamlet 
for  all  time.  But  Hamlet,  as  we  have  seen,  does  not 
Hamlet  expcct  to  be  exiled  indefinitely  in  England, 
cemTn'  perhaps  not  even  to  be  landed  there.  In  a 
action.  few  days  he  shall  be  back,  within  a  rapier's 
length  again  of  the  King's  body.  When  the  ap- 
pointed moment  comes,  Hamlet  is  magnificent  in 
action.  Though  the  King  is  surrounded  with  his 
court  and  attendants,  well  armed,  many  of  them  cer- 


GROUPINGS   OF  THE  PLAYS  303 

tainly  loyal  to  himself,  Hamlet  awes  them  all  into 
helplessness  as  he  orders  the  doors  locked,  stabs  the 
King  through  with  the  envenomed  blade,  and  forces 
him  to  drink  off  the  poisoned  wine.  It  is  difficult  to 
see  how  the  objectors  could  have  made  the  hero  of 
this  play  behave,  under  the  circumstances  of  the  plot, 
much  better  than  Shakespeare  has  ordained  the  course 
of  the  Hamlet  that  we  find.  Infinitely  perplexed  as 
to  the  form  and  manner  of  his  duty,  he  accepts  his 
fate,  when  once  the  path  is  opened,  with  divine  repose 
and  strength.  Literature  shows  nowhere  a  nobler 
protagonist  of  right  and  truth. 

Kiftg  Lear  is  generally  considered  as  the  greatest 
of  Shakespeare's  tragedies,  at  least  in  point  of  grim 
and  titanic  suffering.  Here  a  spoiled  and 
wilful  ruler,  who  has  rioted  in  emotional 
excesses  for  fourscore  years,  is  suddenly  subjected 
to  unspeakable  wrongs  and  crosses,  and  what  with 
humiliation,  and  what  with  cold  and  hunger  and 
neglect,  loses  his  mind.  But  insanity  thus  caused  is 
not  incurable  ;  removal  of  the  occasion  brings  back 
his  reason.  Thus  the  ultimate  point  of  the  drama 
involves  regeneration,  redemption  of  a  violent  nature 
by  violence,  and  the  play  is  largely  given  to  the  ap- 
plication and  administering  of  the  remedial  forces. 
When  he  can  no  longer  hold  his  kingdom,  or  take  a 
city,  he  learns  how  to  rule  his  spirit,  and  is  really 
ready  at  last  to  live. 

It  will  be  perhaps  most  helpful  to  contemplate  the 
play  as  divided  into  these  two  parts  :  the  evolution 
and  operation  of  Lear's  punishments ;  the  moral  con- 


304  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

valescence  of  his  mind.  The  origin  and  develop- 
^,  ment  of  the  disease  Shakespeare  takes  for 

The  two  ^ 

divisions  of  granted.  The  first  great  shock  comes  to  Lear 
this  play,  f  j-Qj-n  the  revolt  of  Cordelia,  in  the  opening 
scene.  There  have  been  three  daughters  in  this  king's 
household  ;  there  is  but  one  now,  and  the  mother  has 
for  some  time  been  dead.  Goneril,  the  eldest,  a  fleshly 
and  avaricious  creature,  big  of  bone  and  masculine  in 
fibre,  is  now  outside  the  family  with  a  husband,  — 
as  it  would  seem  of  her  own  securing, — the  Duke  of 
Albany.  Regan,  also  wedded  to  a  subject,  has  left 
her  father's  home  for  the  Earl  of  Cornwall's  castle ; 
she,  as  we  cannot  doubt,  much  of  her  mother's  mould, 
small  of  stature,  refined  and  womanly,  and  nearer  to 
her  father's  heart.  CordeHa  and  her  father  have 
made  a  home  together,  and  for  some  years  perhaps 
it  has  been  his  will  to  keep  this  daughter,  his  last  and 
least,  as  he  calls  her,  a  petite  creature,  weaker  in 
presence  and  more  lovable,  immeasurably  more  lova- 
ble than  Regan,  to  himself.  When  she  shall  wed,  it 
is  determined  that  her  husband  shall  be  at  least  a 
prince,  and  two  suitors  of  this  rank  have  long  made 
their  amorous  sojourn  at  the  court,  waiting  the  father's 
pleasure.  At  length  King  Lear,  perhaps  awakening 
to  the  injustice  of  keeping  her  unmarried  to  cheer  his 
fireside,  proposes  to  endow  her  with  the  choicest  of 
his  lands,  part  the  residue  between  her  sisters,  and 
withdraw  from  the  palace  that  would  be  desolate 
without  her.  Goneril  and  Regan,  realising  that 
neither  is  their  father's  favourite,  scheme  to  secure  as 
large  a  portion  as  they  each  can  of  the  dismembered 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE   PLAYS  305 

kingdom.  Blind  to  the  jeopardy  of  a  divided  sov- 
ereignty, and  anxious  as  it  would  seem  but  to  have 
his  old  ears  tickled  with  outrageous  flattery,  Lear 
plans  to  go  out  in  a  blaze  of  glory,  and  to  exalt  Cor- 
delia with  such  a  gift  as  king's  hands  never  gave 
before.  Perhaps  he  has  thought,  by  the  richness  of 
her  dowry,  in  itself  a  kingdom,  to  keep  her  prince 
with  her  in  Britain,  and  so  spend  his  days  still  with 
her. 

So  the  first  of  his  calamities  comes  to  King  Lear, 
much  as  if  another  drama  of  Job  were  to  be  enacted, 
in  the  first  scene.  It  is  a  spectacular,  yet  a  -pj^g  f^^^^ 
domestic,  situation.  There  are  no  courtiers  calamity, 
called  to  be  witnesses  save  Kent  and  Gloster,  with 
Gloster's  son,  which  last-named  person,  according  to 
the  Folio,  remains,  and  reads,  perhaps,  in  the  strange 
procedures,  the  chance  of  a  traitorous  career.  Before 
the  King,  now  entering,  is  borne  the  coronet  that  is 
to  rest  on  Cordelia's  brows,  as  the  earnest  of  her  dowry. 
The  King  takes  the  throne  and  calls  immediately  for 
a  map  of  Britain.  He  knows  what  affection  each  of 
his  daughters  bears  him,  yet  he  bids  for  protestations, 
feigning,  though  the  portion  of  each  is  predetermined, 
that  he  will  match  his  giving  with  their  saying. 
Goneril  goes  soberly  though  the  farce  of  formulat- 
ing her  affection,  making  it  as  extreme  as  breath  can 
phrase  it,  and  giving  the  whole  the  momentum  of  her 
overplus  of  personality.  Cordelia,  who  cannot  be 
oratorical,  feels  that  she  is  outclassed  already,  and 
resolves  not  to  be  heard  in  competition  with  such 
falseness.     Regan,  with  seeming  greater  confidence 


306  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

in  her  father's  favour,  with  greater  womanliness,  takes 
her  sister's  sermon  for  her  text,  — '  only  she  comes 
too  short.'  The  suspicion  is  aroused  here,  to  be 
confirmed  later,  that  Regan's  part  could  scarcely  have 
been  played  as  we  find  it,  had  there  been  no  rival  to 
give  her  the  cue.  But  now  the  proud  father,  having 
cleared  the  field,  and  settHng  himself  for  his  joy,  notthe 
joy  alone  of  hearing  Cordelia  testify  to  her  affection, 
but  withal  the  joy  of  making  her  mistress  of  half  his 
kingdom,  asks  her  to  do  her  part  in  this  abdication 
ceremonial.  There  is  silence.  He  bids  her  speak. 
With  inexplicable  and  unfeeling  deliberation  she 
answers,  '  Nothing.'  Lear  cannot  at  first  believe 
his  ears.  He  makes  inquiry  if  she  means  unfilially 
and  wilfully  to  disappoint  him,  and  she  dares,  stand- 
ing in  all  her  helplessness  before  him  to  say,  '  Ay.' 
It  is  the  bitterest  moment  in  this  father's  life.  But 
there  is  no  help  for  it.  This  defiance  must  be 
punished,  and  the  thunderbolts  of  wrath  fall  upon 
her  head. 

The  discipline  of  adversity  is  now  administered, 
with  all  of  Shakespeare's  terrible  dramatic  condensa- 
Gonerirs  tioTi,  to  the  mined  King.  Even  before  the 
ambition.  fi];st  sccuc  closcs,  Goncril  bespcaks  Regan's 
cooperation  in  her  father's  ruin.  Does  she  think  to 
crowd  out  Regan  and  her  weakling  husband,  and  so 
make  herself  sole  heir  ?  She  has  inherited  all  the 
force  of  her  father's  will,  and  joins  withal  such  con- 
sciencelessness  and  cruelty  as  make  her  monstrous 
beyond  example  among  Shakespeare's  women.  She 
knows  that  her  father  is  tyrannical,  and  can  be  driven 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  307 

easily  to  exasperation.  She  means  to  goad  him  to 
leave  her,  and  she  will  control  her  sister's  sympathies 
toward  him.  So  within  a  fortnight  comes  the  order 
to  put  on  weary  negligence  toward  the  King  and  all 
his  followers.  The  result  is  that  Lear  falls  in  a  rage, 
orders  out  his  horses  only  just  stalled  for  their  fodder 
after  hunting,  and  sets  out  for  Gloster  without  touch- 
ing the  dinner  that  he  was  demanding  to  have  imme- 
diately served.  Goneril  despatches  a  letter  to  Gloster, 
to  prevent  Regan  from  receiving  her  father  there. 

Lear  rides  all  night  on  the  way  to  Gloster  town, 
only  to  find  Regan  and  her  husband  gone,  of  purpose, 
to  Gloster  castle.  Following  also  thither,  he  discovers 
Kent  whistling  and  singing  in  the  stocks,  on  the 
castle  esplanade.  Lear's  wrath  has  cooled  overnight ; 
but,  at  this  insult  to  himself  through  his  servant,  it 
blazes  out  again.  He  feels  the  madness  coming ;  how 
is  Jie  to  endure  such  insolence }  Cornwall  and  Regan 
at  last  appear,  and  at  a  covert  signal,  probably  from  the 
former,  Kent  is  set  at  liberty.  But  the  haJf-famished 
father  is  not  asked  within.  Little  by  Uttle  Regan's 
and  Cornwall's  courage  comes.  Regan  tells  her 
father  that  he  is  old,  and  insignificant,  begs  him  to  go 
back  to  her  sister  and  ask  forgiveness.  Lear  cannot 
take  this  seriously,  and  Regan  cannot  find  the  words 
to  exasperate  her  father  as  Goneril's  language  did. 

Ask  her  forgiveness  ? 
Do  you  but  mark  how  this  becomes  the  house: 
'  Dear  daughter,  I  confess  that  I  am  old. 
Age  is  unnecessary.     On  my  knees  I  beg 
That  you'll  vouchsafe  me  raiment,  bed,  and  food.' 


308  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

We  should  have  expected  another  curse  as  terrible 
as  the  one  pronounced,  just  before  leaving  the  Duke 
Regan  a  of  Albany's  palace,  upon  Goneril.  But 
Lad"  Mac-  Lear  seems  to  feel  that  this  is  the  one  prop 
beth.  now  left ;  the  self-control  that  keeps  back 

denunciation  here  shows  that  there  is  chance  of  cure. 
Goneril  now  arrives,  and  at  sight  of  her  Lear  loses 
all  mastery  over  himself.  He  feels  the  madness 
coming,  and  pleads  with  Goneril  to  save  him.  Hunger 
and  exhaustion  urge  him,  and  he  consents  even  to  go 
back  with  her.  But  Goneril  will  not  have  it  so,  and 
by  denying  him  his  knights  makes  him  break  out  in 
tears,  and  turn  his  steps  away  toward  the  barren  and 
houseless  moor.  Cornwall  proposes  that  they  with- 
draw within  the  castle.  Regan,  like  a  Lady  Mac- 
beth, all  unendowed  for  cruelty,  in  the  excitement  of 
an  almost  reaUsed  ambition,  is  found  consenting  to  the 
work  her  sister  and  her  husband  have  determined. 
Regan  could  not  of  her  own  purpose  have  thrust  out 
her  father.  Goneril  was  needed  to  bring  to  pass  this 
turn.  She  has  been  summoned  by  the  author  for 
this  artistic  object,  through  the  motive  of  preventing 
Regan  from  taking  her  father's  part. 

In  the  Third  Act  Lear's  agony  is  complete.  To 
break  with  his  fourscore  years  of  privilege  and 
Lear  pities  priuccly  living,  and  sink  to  the  lowest  depths 
his  fool.  of  deprivation  and  suffering,  would  turn  the 
wits  of  any  man.  But  it  is  worth  while  that  he  find 
himself  too  poor  to  feed  his  devoted  fool,  since  his 
heart  begins  to  soften.  The  more  he  raves,  the  more 
patient  and  forgiving  he  becomes.     Little  by  little  he 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  309 

loses  the  power  to  identify  his  surroundings,  though 
he  yet  sees  pictures  of  his  happy  past,  and  remembers 
Tray  and  Blanche  and  Sweetheart,  CordeHa's  pet 
dogs,  amid  all  the  wreck  of  ideas  and  fancies.  Then 
comes  the  worst ;  that  exquisite  irritableness  so  often 
noted  in  the  pathology  of  the  insane  to-day,  when 
they  cry  out  that  the  stars  burn  them,  takes  possession 
of  his  mind.  Even  the  fool  forgets  his  gibes  and 
foolishness.  Even  Edgar,  trepidated  by  the  presence 
of  his  father,  whom  he  must  keep  from  recognising 
the  tones  of  his  voice,  is  moved  to  tears  and  pity. 
The  punishment  of  Lear  is  full,  for  he  has  forgotten, 
in  the  sufferings  of  others,  his  own  woes. 

Lear    has   been    thought    a    savage    and    brutish 
nature.     But    the   language   that  he   uses  argues   a 
mind   of   singular   refinement,  and  proves    Le^rnot 
him  capable  of  much  loftiness  of  mood  and  savage  or 
vision.     A    man   is   not  so  well  known  by 
the    vocabulary    he    uses   as    by   the    elevation    of 
thought  that  compels  the  selection  of  noble  words. 
Even  Lear's  curses,  so  awful  in  their  fierceness,  are 
sublime.     Were    Lear   bloodthirsty,  he   would   have 
put  Cordeha  to  death,  when    she   crossed   him,  and 
struck  down  Goneril  and  Regan,  while  they  baited 
him  before  Gloster  castle,  with  his  sword. 

Goneril  is  sensual,  and,  with  all  of  woman's  false- 
ness, false  at  heart.     She  exalts  Oswald  to   Regan 
the  post  of  favourite,  puts  on  him  princely  nearer  to 

,      ,  .  ,  .  .   .  ,  .       ,  Cordelia 

clothmg,  sets  him  at  writmg  letters  m  her  t^an  to 
name,  girds    him    with    a    sword    and   calls  Goneril. 
him  '  my  gentleman.'     Kent  makes  him   betray  the 


310  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

fact  that  he  has  no  gentleman's  breeding  and  cannot 
use  a  sword.  But  Goneril's  fondness  for  his  shape, 
and  his  dainty  '  clerk  '  services,  does  not  hinder  her 
from  attempting  to  appropriate  Edmund  in  an  in- 
trigue, as  soon  as  she  has  the  chance  to  woo  him. 
Regan  is  not  of  such  coarse  mould,  and  is  fairly 
ladyUke  (IV.  v)  over  her  rival's  letter.  Goneril  would 
have  gained  possession  of  such  a  missive,  under  like 
circumstances,  at  any  cost.  Regan's  worst  conclu- 
sion concerning  her  sister's  character  is  that  she  does 
not  love  her  husband.  Goneril's  purity  of  thought 
would  not  have  hindered  a  grosser  judgment. 

Cordelia  has  been  pronounced  the  most  beautiful 
of  Shakespeare's  feminine  creations,  but  this  judg- 
ment seems  not  well  advised.  She  has  plainly  no 
such  sympathy  with  her  father  in  his  violence  and 
passion  as  Imogen  feels  when  Cymbeline  banishes 
Posthumus.  She  shows  something  of  Lear's  un- 
shrinking, combative  disposition,  when  she  brings 
upon  herself  her  father's  curse.  She  knew  what  the 
disappointment  would  mean  to  him,  she  was  well 
aware  that  her  father  would  curse  her  to  his  own 
infinite  hurt  and  sorrow ;  but  she  forced  him  to  his 
fate.  What  was  it,  furthermore,  in  outside  conditions, 
that  brought  into  play  before  her  father  this  unsus- 
pected wilfulness  ^  Was  it  nineteenth-century  revolt 
against  enforced  marriage  with  a  designing  suitor  .■• 
Was  it  revulsion  against  the  transparent  flattery  of 
her  sisters  .*'  Was  it  that  conscious  love  had  arisen 
between  France  and  herself,  during  his  amorous 
sojourn,  already,  while  that  Burgundy  was  in  prece* 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  311 

dence  with  her  father  ?  Shakespeare  has  not  helped 
us,  with  his  wonted  consideration,  in  these  hard 
matters, 

Cordelia  rises  to  her  height  of  favour  with  us  when 
the  music  plays  softly,  and  the  daughter  kisses 
her  restored  and  regenerate  father  awake,  -n^e  recon- 
What  could  be  more  pathetic  than  the  cli-  ciiiation. 
max  (IV.  vii.  71)  here,  when  Lear  puts  up  his  hand 
to  the  tears  on  Cordelia's  face  to  make  sure  that  they 
are  tears  indeed,  that  she  is  not  a  soul  in  bliss,  and, 
so,  far  beyond  his  reach.  Dimly,  but  potently  in  his 
consciousness,  even  in  his  madness,  he  has  held  fast 
to  the  presence  of  Cordeha,  and  felt  his  sin.  Step 
by  step  he  comes  back  into  possession  of  himself,  a 
self  now  beautiful  in  forbearance  and  forgiveness 
and  humility :  — 

You  must  bear  with  me.     Pray  you  now 
Forget  and  forgive  ;   I  am  old  and  foolish. 

The  scene  ends  in  an  idyllic  picture.  The  gigantic 
frame  of  the  once  violent  father,  a  little  bent  with 
recent  suffering,  his  wealth  of  gray  hair  all  dishev- 
elled, is  supported  by  the  slender,  upstrained  arm  of 
Cordelia,  which  cannot  well  reach  to  his  shoulder,  as 
she  walks  to  his  slow  step  out  from  the  tent  into  the 
air  and  sunshine.  Small  wonder  is  it  that  we  hear 
this  king  saying  after  the  battle  and  the  capture,  — 

Come,  let's  away  to  prison. 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage. 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I'll  kneel  down, 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness.     So  we'll  live, 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 


312  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 

Talk  of  court  news;   and  we'll  talk  with  them  too, 

Who  loses,  and  who  wins,  who's  in,  who's  out, 

And  take  upon  's  the  mystery  of  things, 

As  if  we  were  God's  spies :  and  we'll  wear  out. 

In  a  wall'd  prison,  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones, 

That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon. 

Yet  this  is  the  monster  who,  quaking  with  rage, 
had  said  to  Cordelia  scarcely  one  moon  ago :  — 

The  barbarous  Scythian, 
Or  he  that  makes  his  generation  messes 
To  gorge  his  appetite,  shall  to  my  bosom 
Be  as  well  neighbour'd,  piti'd,  and  reliev'd 
As  thou  my  sometime  daughter. 

We  shall  hardly  call  the  piece  a  pessimistic  study, 
wrought  from  the  broodings  of  an  injured  mind.  The 
whole  ends  tragically,  following  the  course  in  Holin- 
shed,  and  Robert  of  Gloucester's  Chronicle.  Cordelia, 
to  save  her  father,  invaded  England.  Lear,  to  be 
saved  by  his  daughter,  became  a  traitor  in  his  own 
kingdom.  Lear  survives  his  cure,  and  might  have 
reigned  again,  but  the  cost  of  his  follies  kills  him. 

Three  more  great  tragedies,  OtJiello,  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  and  Coriolamis  belong  to  the  strenuous 
Julius  period,  from  which  Lear  and  Macbeth  sprang. 
Casar.  Xo  thcsc,  that  we  may  make  the  group  of 
principal  tragedies  complete,  Julius  CcBsar  should  be 
added.  The  last-named  drama  antedates  Othello,  Lear, 
and  perhaps  Macbeth,  we  shall  remember,  by  half  a 
dozen  years.  It  is  a  piece  plain  and  homely,  like 
the  Droeshout  portrait,  yet  no  less  masterly  than  the 
others,  and  not  less  despairing  in  tone  and  spirit.    The 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE   PLAYS  313 

pall  of  destiny  is  upon  it.  Liberty  is  in  its  shroud, 
yet  the  people  keep  holiday.  They  have  lost  even 
recognition  of  what  their  forefathers  did  when  they 
thrust  out  the  Tarquin.  They  have  no  principles ; 
Pompey's  triumph  over  the  enemies  of  Rome,  or 
Caesar's  triumph  over  Pompey,  are  all  the  same  to 
them.  There  is  no  longer  any  patriotism  among  them, 
and  the  strong  arm  is  the  only  rule  that  they  will  re- 
spect. Nowhere  else  does  Shakespeare  lay  his  hand 
so  heavily  upon  one  of  the  world's  great  ones  as  he 
presumes  to  do  in  his  treatment  of  Caesar  here.  We 
are  forced  to  discard  our  notions  of  Caesar's  greatness, 
and  hold  him  dotardly  and  mean,  until  our  consent  to 
his  death  is  won.  Brutus  represents  the  highest  type 
of  the  Graeco-Roman  mind,  unconscious  because  with- 
out sense  of  sin,  having  no  inward  struggles,  such  as 
make  Hamlet  typical  of  the  Gothic  race,  erring 
continually,  yet  incapable  of  self-distrust.  By  a 
feminine  resolution  he  joins  the  conspirators,  believ- 
ing that  justice  as  administered  by  himself  will 
redeem  the  self-seeking  character  of  their  cause. 
Portia  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  Shakespeare's  women, 
and  deserves  treatment  as  a  principal  character  for 
her  own  sake.  But,  lest  she  absorb  attention,  she  is 
shown  but  twice,  being  used  as  an  aid  in  forcing  our 
consent  to  Caesar's  death.  There  is  much  of  political 
philosophy  and  sociology  in  the  piece.  It  is  not  a 
play  to  be  lightly  studied. 

Othello  has  been  regarded  by  many  students  and 
critics  as  the  highest  triumph  of  Shakespeare's  art. 
It  is  a  study  in  the  consequences  of  a  union  between 


314  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

two  natures  equally  true  and  noble,  but  of  different 
races,  and  of  unlike  station  and  culture. 
Desdemona  is  the  child  of  fortune,  born  in 
a  palace,  and  bred  to  a  life  of  elegant  leisure,  yet  strong 
and  intolerant  of  the  degeneracy  which  her  race  had 
reached.  Othello  has  been  brought  up  in  camps,  and 
lacks  the  refinement  that  comes  from  the  pursuits  of 
Renaissance  literature,  and  the  cultivation  of  art  and 
music.  Desdemona  has  been  fascinated  by  Othello's 
simple  and  elemental  greatness  of  soul.  Othello  has 
been  flattered  by  Desdemona's  admiration  for  his 
prowess  and  exploits.  Since  her  father  would  never 
consent  to  her  marriage  with  a  Moor,  Desdemona 
determines  to  trust  herself  to  Othello's  keeping,  and 
turns  her  back  upon  her  family  and  her  circle.  The 
question  to  be  worked  out  dramatically  is  whether 
her  trust  in  Othello  is  warranted,  whether  he  is  capa- 
ble of  appreciating  and  guarding  the  jewel  he  has 
won.  Can  he  work  out  her  destiny  with  his  own  ? 
Did  they  err  to  wed  from  such  disparate  stations  and 
modes  of  living  .-• 

Had  they  remained  always  in  the  native  environ- 
ment of  the  bride,  it  is  Hkely  that  their  happiness 
would  have  been  unmarred.  Shakespeare  wishes  the 
trial  made  under  harder  conditions.  He  devises  the 
threat  of  a  Turkish  attack  on  Cyprus,  to  get  Othello 
and  his  wife  away  from  Venice.  In  the  chief  fortified 
city  of  the  island,  where  Othello  is  absolute  ruler 
under  martial  law,  we  can  better  study  the  nobility 
of  the  husband's  mind.  A  storm  is  made  to  have 
destroyed  the  Turkish  fleet,  and  the  new-married  pair 


GROUPINGS   OF  THE  PLAYS  315 

are  free  to  work  out  their  felicity  under  circumstances 
in  which  they  should  have  been  peculiarly  all  the 
world  to  each  other.  The  tempter  of  their  peace 
comes  in  the  shape  of  a  cowardly  and  heartless  office- 
seeker.  He  gets  Othello's  lieutenant  into  disgrace 
with  his  chief,  and  is  made  acting-subaltern  in  his 
stead.  To  secure  this  post  perpetually,  he  makes 
Othello  jealous  of  Cassio,  the  suspended  lieutenant, 
a  courtly  and  accomplished  countryman  of  Desde- 
mona's,  and  manages  to  elicit  a  virtual  order  to  put 
this  man  to  death  by  assassination.  In  so  far  he  has 
succeeded.  But  the  wild  nature  that  he  has  aroused 
will  not  stop  with  the  death  of  Cassio.  Othello  feels 
that  he  must  destroy  the  woman  who  has  given  her- 
self into  his  care.  Had  he  been  of  Desdemona's  race 
and  breeding,  he  would  have  read  her  face,  and 
found  her  soul.  Being  a  Moor,  he  cannot  know  the 
difference  between  her  and  any  other  woman,  born 
in  a  palace,  of  half  her  worth  and  rareness.  The 
woman  who  craves  manliness  and  strength  must  not 
compound  for  these  virtues  by  forfeiting  all  the 
amenities  and  accomplishments  of  the  highest  living. 
Seldom  will  a  match  so  made  turn  out  to  have  been 
based  upon  the  true  affinities.  The  whole  tragedy 
turns  upon  the  material  circumstance  of  Desdemona's 
handkerchief,  given  to  Cassio  in  Othello's  sight  by 
Bianca,  Cassio's  mistress,  who  is  introduced  for  this 
and  another  kindred  purpose  into  the  play. 

The  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  popularly  assumed  to 
deal  baldly  and  unsparingly  with  unethical  and  even 
disreputable   social   conduct.     The  relations  of   the 


3l6  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

title  characters  are  as  told  of  in  history  so  notorious 
that  most  readers  approach  the  play  with  some  mis- 
Antony  and  giving.  But  Shakespcarc  exercises  no  pes- 
cieopatra.  simistic  privileges  even  here.  No  diligent 
and  discerning  student  finds  himself  scandahsed  over 
the  course  of  the  plot,  or  the  matter  in  the  lines. 
There  is  the  same  eventual  release  and  redemption 
from  evil  that  we  have  noted  in  other  dramas  of  this 
period.  There  are  really  two  tragedies  fused  into 
one.  The  tragedy  of  Antony  culminates  in  Act  IV  ; 
the  tragedy  of  Cleopatra  is  developed  in  Act  V.  The 
art  of  the  author  is  perhaps  more  potently  exercised 
in  this  drama  than  elsewhere  in  all  his  works.  The 
piece  opens  with  a  situation  that  confirms  the  tradi- 
tions and  presumption  touching  the  title  characters. 
Antony  is  dancing  attendance  upon  the  Queen  in  a 
most  un-Roman  and  unstalwart  fashion.  But  as  we 
listen  to  the  dialogue  we  become  persuaded  that  the 
blame  does  not  belong  equally  to  Rome  and  Egypt. 
Antony  is  not  the  principal  in  the  case;  Cleopatra 
solicits  his  devotion  publicly  and  unblushingly.  We 
are  thus  drawn  into  something  like  sympathy  for 
Antony,  which  is  increased  when  Cleopatra  presently 
goads  him  into  refusing  audience  to  the  messengers. 
Little  by  little  we  are  led  to  give  countenance  to 
Antony,  as  he  hears  the  reports  of  the  messengers, 
since  sent  for,  and  regrets  the  death  of  his  shrewish 
wife.  He  refuses  to  use  the  freedom  that  has  now 
come  to  him  ;  he  will  leave  Cleopatra,  and  take  up 
the  duties  of  his  rule.  Cleopatra  gibes  him,  and  plies 
him  with  all  her  wiles,  from  pretended  wrath  to  tears, 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  317 

to  prevent  his  going.  Antony  is  considerate  and 
chivalrous,  but  firm ;  and  the  play  finds  itself  pro- 
vided with  a  hero.  The  author  begins  at  once, 
before  the  scene  finishes,  to  redeem  Cleopatra,  and 
almost  accomplishes  this  by  the  enthusiastic  and 
whole-souled  way  in  which  he  makes  her  give  up  her 
control.  Before  the  act  is  closed,  the  play  is  provided 
also  with  an  irresistible  heroine.  By  no  sort  of 
means,  if  Shakespeare  had  attempted  to  treat  these 
characters,  as  history  presents  them,  together,  could 
he  have  made  them  practicable  for  his  purpose.  By 
withdrawing  Antony  from  Cleopatra,  and  leaving  the 
burden  of  blame  to  be  borne  by  her,  the  author 
grounds  the  whole  on  ethic  principles.  In  hke  fash- 
ion he  develops  and  completes  the  tragedy  of  Antony 
by  making  Cleopatra  chargeable  with  his  ruin.  Then 
he  redeems  again  his  heroine.  Antony  perishes  be- 
cause he  has  been  too  generous,  and  esteemed  himself 
too  lightly.  Cleopatra,  because  undisciplined,  selfish, 
self-willed,  has  been  the  evil  genius  of  his  career. 
But  there  are  magnificent  possibilities  in  her  nature. 
In  any  other  environment  she  might  have  been  alto- 
gether noble.  Bred  under  the  corrupt  influences  of  a 
degenerate  civilisation,  vain  and  self-indulgent  almost 
beyond  belief,  she  is  nevertheless  grand  in  strength 
and  vision.  The  death  of  Antony,  and  the  determi- 
nation to  save  herself  from  Caesar,  arouse  her  better 
powers.  Right  aspirations  possess  her.  In  the  sub- 
limity of  her  dying  thoughts  she  forgets  the  royal 
finery  in  which  she  has  ordered  herself  arrayed.  Her 
selfishness  is  merged  in  the  completeness  of  her  re- 


3l8  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

nunciation.  That  she  comes  to  death  when  she  has 
but  begun  to  hve  is  of  the  essence  of  this  second 
tragedy.  The  tragedy  of  Cleopatra  is  greater  than 
the  tragedy  of  Antony,  for  Antony  had  never  lived 
selfishly  or  ignobly.  The  play  is  a  study  in  charac- 
ter consequences,  and  makes  for  righteousness  more 
potently  than  a  thousand  sermons. 

In  strong  contrast  with  Julius  Ccesar  and  Antony 
and  Cleopatra  stands  Coriolanus,  a  play  of  stalwart 
^   .  ,         and  patriotic  Rome  in  the  early  age.     The 

Coriolanus.  ^  ^       «-> 

beginnings  of  the  latter-day  degeneracy, 
which  is  exhibited  so  powerfully  in  the  first  two  of 
the  dramas  just  named,  are  hinted  at.  The  plebeians 
have  achieved  their  first  conquest  of  power,  and  are 
using  it  irresponsibly  and  wildly  against  the  aristo- 
cratic party.  The  newly  appointed  tribunes  resort  to 
demagoguery  at  the  outset,  and  enrich  {cf.  IV.  vi.  i6o) 
themselves  at  the  people's  cost.  The  potent  figure 
in  the  play  is  Volumnia,  the  perfect  type  of  Roman 
womanhood,  from  whose  strength  the  conquerors  of 
the  world  were  born.  It  is  her  pride,  her  life,  to  have 
been  the  mother  of  a  hero,  who  has  done  the  state 
noble  services,  who  bears  the  marks  of  twenty-seven 
wounds,  and  has  come  the  third  time  home  crowned 
with  the  oak.  The  father  of  this  champion  seems  to 
have  been  no  patriot,  struck  no  blows  for  his  country, 
saved  the  life  of  no  citizen ;  for  nowhere  does  this 
proud  dame  mention  him.  The  son  inherits  his 
mother's  strength,  but  derives  a  foolish,  bragging 
egotism  seemingly  from  the  father.  Coriolanus  cares 
nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  for  the  state.     He  covets 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  319 

only  to  be  invincible,  and  would,  as  he  declares, 
change  sides  to  fight  with  Tullus  Aufidius,  whom  he 
thinks  he  outrivals,  and  who  is  everything  that  a  Co- 
riolanus  cannot  be.  Cominius  and  Titus  Lartius  and 
Menenius  are  typic  representatives  of  the  better  class 
that  has  built  Rome  and  is  defending  it  and  sus- 
taining the  burdens  of  its  civic  life.  Volumnia,  who 
once  saves  her  son  and  once  the  state,  in  his  despite, 
is  no  whit  unwomanly,  making  up  in  motherly  devo- 
tion what  she  loses  by  the  exercise  of  a  more  than 
masculine  force  of  will.  The  beautiful  thing  in  the 
play  is  the  boyish  obedience  of  Coriolanus  to  his 
mother.  His  wife  Virgilia  is  his  counterpart,  as  well 
as  Volumnia's  foil,  shrinking  from  her  husband's 
feats,  and  happy  in  him  for  his  personal  and  domestic 
worth.  The  play  has  been  called  a  tragedy  of  pride. 
It  is  rather  a  tragedy  of  selfishness  and  self-will. 
With  a  little  more  wiUingness  to  sacrifice  for  the  gen- 
eral good,  Coriolanus  might  have  been  the  chief 
figure  in  Roman  annals.  But  he  was  so  made  up 
that  he  became  instead  a  traitor.  The  play  is  also  in 
part  a  study  in  the  civics  of  classic  time,  when  the 
state  seemed  not  to  exist  for  its  citizens,  but  its  citi- 
zens for  the  state. 

The  great  plays  of  the  list,  while  generally  sup- 
posed to  comprise  only  these  that  we  have  dealt  with 
from  among  the  tragedies,  must  fairly  in-  The  great 
elude  some  of  the  comedies.  There  can  'comedies. 
be  small  doubt  as  to  the  choice ;  no  one  of  these  six, 
As  You  Like  it,  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Twelfth 
Nighty    Taming  of  the   Shrew,  Midsummer  Night's 


320  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

Dream,  and  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  can  be  left 
out.  Some  glimpses  of  the  human  nature  and  of  the 
art  in  these,  time  must  be  found  to  add. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing  is  well  named,  being  one 

of  the  slenderest  of  all  the  plays.     It  is  founded  upon 

the  reciprocal  irritation   that   some  strong 

Much  Ado.  ^ 

natures  seem  to  feel  at  sight  of  each  other, 
when  they  are  nevertheless  near  to  being  complete 
affinities.  Beatrice  is  in  this  case  the  stronger,  and 
is  drawn  with  something  like  a  motherly  impulse  to 
Benedict,  who  has  been  advised  to  conquer  his  fond- 
ness for  her.  Benedict  is  for  his  part  flattered  that 
one  who  has  put  him  down  in  wit-combats  should 
affect  him  hopelessly.  To  give  substance  to  the 
piece,  and  afford  the  lovers  a  makeshift  motive  for 
dealing  with  each  other,  there  is  a  second  plot.  It 
would  not  do  to  have  Beatrice  made  game  of  in  her 
own  house,  so  she  is  presented  to  us  as  but  a  niece 
to  Leonato.  Leonato's  daughter  is  traduced  by  a 
Spanish  villain,  and  Benedict  engages,  because  Bea- 
trice requests  it,  to  avenge  her.  But  the  plot  has 
been  overheard  by  Dogberry  and  Verges,  two  blun- 
dering English  constables,  imported  to  Messina  to 
furnish  farcical  matter  for  the  piece.  Italian  officers 
would  have  known  and  used  their  native  tongue 
unambitiously  and  correctly.  Hero  suffers  in  a  way 
that  amounts  to  tragedy ;  but  we  do  not  take  her 
troubles  very  seriously,  the  play  getting  thus  its 
proper  counterpoise  of  sorrow.  Benedict  does  not 
fight  his  friend  Claudio,  and  was  made  to  challenge 
him  merely  to  estabUsh  to  us  the  seriousness  of  his 


GROUPINGS   OF  THE  PLAYS  32 1 

feeling,  and  the  subordination  of  his  mind  and  will 
to  Beatrice.  In  spite  of  the  lightness  of  the  plot, 
profound  principles  of  psychology  and  human  nature 
are  depended  upon  to  keep  the  whole  sensible  and 
sound. 

The  Midsummer  ISiighfs  Dream  seems  to  have  been 
inspired  by  the  wish  to  make  a  play  dealing  with 
fairies  and  the  unseen  world  of  their  activ-  j^ji^^j^^. 
ity.  In  Shakespeare's  age  the  popular  mind  mer Night's 
was  still  astir  over  interferences  assumed  to  ^^'^^' 
come  from  the  domain  of  tricksy  spirits,  and  Robin 
Goodfellow  was  beheved  in  perhaps  as  steadfastly 
as  any  person  mentioned  in  the  catechism.  The  title 
betrays  how  slight  were  the  obhgations  that  Shake- 
speare was  willing  to  assume  for  the  characters  and 
happenings  of  the  piece.  Quite  evidently  it  would 
be  impossible  to  found  a  play  upon  the  loves  or  for- 
tunes of  a  Titania  and  an  Oberon ;  these  cannot  be 
made  more  than  incidental  to  the  drama  as  a  whole, 
however  spectacular  the  mischief  they  are  to  do.  So 
the  dramatisation,  based  upon  the  occasion  of  the 
nuptials  of  the  great  Theseus,  king  or  "duke"  of 
Athens  in  the  heroic  age,  and  Hippolyta,  queen  of 
the  Amazons,  belongs  to  a  world  much  higher  than 
the  plane  of  elves,  higher  almost  than  the  human. 
As  the  maximum  consummation,  in  part  fancifully 
conceived,  we  desire  that  the  felicity  or  comfort  of 
this  virtually  demigod  and  demigoddess  pair  may  not 
be  marred  by  any  untoward  or  ill-advised  entertain- 
ment. We  wish  that  their  union  might  {cf.  I.  i.  16-19) 
be  solemnised  in  epic  style,  or  at  least  with  as  much 


322  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

dignity  as  was  ever  compassed  by  the  masterpieces 
of  the  Athenian  stage.  Also  we  are  in  lively  sym- 
pathy with  Hippolyta,  who  (I.  i.  122)  would  not  have 
Theseus  unrelenting,  in  the  midst  of  his  own  happi- 
ness, toward  other  lovers  not  so  fortunate  as  them- 
selves. By  the  graciousness  of  the  pair  all  turns  out 
comedially  and  well,  the  ridiculous  effort  of  Bottom 
and  his  companions — who  are  borrowed  from  Eng- 
land Hke  Dogberry  and  Verges  in  Much  Ado  —  fur- 
nishing the  clownish  or  burlesque  components,  and 
focussing  the  action  after  the  fairy  part  of  the  play 
has  been  wound  up.  The  majesty  and  greatness  of 
the  Duke's  mind,  and  the  divine  reserve  of  Hippolyta's 
disposition,  are  brought  out  in  the  first  paragraphs  of 
Act  V,  and  lift  these  personages  to  their  superior 
level,  though  modern  playing  does  not  in  general  bring 
this  out.  The  two  other  pairs  of  lovers  are  taken  up 
into  their  company  to  furnish  audience  to  the  players. 
There  is  very  palpable  satire  upon  the  subjectivity  of 
love  in  the  juice  of  the  flower,  and  in  the  fact  that 
Demetrius  is  not  disabused  of  its  charm,  but  marries 
Helena  on  the  strength  of  its  influence  alone.  The 
makeshift  heroine  of  the  play  is  Helena,  and  the  hero, 
Demetrius. 

The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  appears  to  have  been 
adapted  from  an  earlier  play,  which  is  still  extant. 
Taming  of  It  bcars  some  resemblance  to  Much  Ado  in 
the  Shrew,    ^.j^^^  jj.  -g  j^j^  -^^  j^^j^^  j^^g  ^  doublc  plot,  and 

possesses  a  heroine  that  is  perhaps  echoed  in  Beatrice 
of  the  later  play.  The  summary  expedients  of  Petru- 
chio,  as  well  as  their  effect  upon  Katherina,  are  pretty 


GROUPINGS   OF  THE   PLAYS  323 

largely  brought  over  from  the  earlier  version,  and 
leave  in  consequence  for  the  student  interpretative 
difficulties  unusual  in  Shakespeare's  work.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  to  many  readers  the  results  seem  to  be 
derived  without  definite  or  reasonable  causation. 
Petruchio  knows  that  Katherina  is  a  good  woman 
at  heart,  a  little  headstrong  at  the  beginning,  and 
now  but  in  small  degree  responsible  for  the  plight 
in  which  he  finds  her.  Katherina  knows  that  Petru- 
chio is  a  good  man,  and  that  he  sees  through  her  and 
likes  her ;  and  she  is  helpless.  She  has  been  driven 
to  unfilial  and  defiant  conduct  by  wrong  home  treat- 
ment until  she  almost  believes  herself  irredeemably 
bad.  Petruchio  saves  her  in  her  own  despite.  The 
discipline  that  marriage  brings  to  strong  natures, 
generally  in  long  years  of  renunciation,  is  condensed 
into  a  fortnight  of  half-ironic  compulsion.  The  In- 
duction of  the  earlier  play  is  retained  by  Shakespeare, 
who  apologetically  saves  by  it  the  necessity  of  pre- 
senting the  piece  as  a  sober  or  first-hand  study  in 
domestic  wisdom. 

TwelftJi  Night  stands  as  a  comedy  somewhat  apart 
from  the  three  plays  now  considered.  In  it  the  char- 
acter of  Maria  goes  well  with  the  women  Twelfth 
of  the  preceding;  Viola  and  Olivia  rank  ^^^^f- 
rather  with  the  women  of  the  tragedies.  Incapable 
of  coarse  or  biting  speech,  and  without  wit-combat 
gifts,  Viola  is  still  as  strong  as  Beatrice  or  Helena 
or  Katherina.  She  does  indeed  what  none  of  these 
could  do,  recovering  her  lost  lover  by  charity  and 
gentleness   with    strategy.      Shakespeare   seems    to 


324  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

have  borrowed  the  main  features  of  the  plot  from 
Gr  Ingannati,  an  ItaHan"* comedy  dating  from  1537. 
The  heroine  of  this  play,  once  beloved  by  a  noble- 
man, and  separated  from  him  by  residence  in  another 
city,  learns  that  he  has  so  far  forgotten  her  as  to  pay 
court  to  a  rich  lady  of  his  circle.  Disguising  herself, 
she  enters  his  service,  and  is  soon  sent  to  woo  as  his 
proxy  the  new  flame.  But  the  lady  falls  in  love  with 
his  messenger  and  rejects  him.  Shakespeare  seems 
to  have  been  attracted  to  this  plot  by  the  possibilities 
in  the  role  of  the  heroine,  and  he  has  made  Viola  the 
most  refined  and  noble  woman  of  all  the  comedies. 
Orsino,  to  suit  this  part,  is  conceived  as  in  love  with 
his  ideals,  as  Romeo  was,  worshipping  Olivia  as  Rosa- 
lind was  worshipped,  afar  off.  Since  Orsino  has  not 
yet  found  his  Juliet,  he  wooes  by  proxy.  He  has 
not  quite  reached  the  point,  when  the  course  of  the 
play  is  stopped,  of  discerning  her.  But  he  is  already 
hedged  about  by  the  occult  and  subtle  influences  of 
her  sex ;  the  strange  comfort  of  Viola's  presence  and 
ministries  has  almost  won  him  to  himself.  Yet  she 
wooes  Orsino  with  great  unselfishness  and  sympathy, 
being  always  ready  to  yield  him  on  seeing  that  he 
has  Olivia's  affection.  She  is  withal  just  and  true 
to  her  rival,  though  with  infinite  opportunity  to  be 
false.  Managing  to  see  Olivia's  face,  and  discover- 
ing there  beauty  perhaps  superior  to  her  own,  she 
shows  no  dislike  of  it  or  its  possessor.  She  is  as 
gentle  and  optimistic  as  Imogen,  and  as  self-poised. 
There  is  somewhat  of  the  same  comic  satire  as  is 
seen  in  the  former  plays.     Olivia  is  made  to  reject 


GROUPINGS   OF  THE  PLAYS  325 

the  Duke  because  of  his  effeminate  advances,  but 
falls  in  love  with  his  page,  who  is  a  woman.  Later 
her  affections  are  transferred  without  difficulty  to 
Sebastian,  who  can  scarcely  be  of  larger  proportions 
or  more  manly  in  appearance  than  his  sister.  There 
is  some  rough  comedy,  to  keep  the  sentiment  parts 
of  the  play  from  seeming  too  strained  and  trivial. 
Sir  Toby  is  provided  in  part  to  insure  physical  means 
for  the  arrest  and  immurement  of  Malvolio.  With- 
out the  egotism  and  sanctimony  of  this  last  character, 
the  main  business  of  the  play  would  seem  too  bald. 
The  drinking  and  maudlin  talk  and  singing,  the 
jokes  of  the  clown,  and  the  countrified  graces  of  Sir 
Andrew's  dancing  make  the  background  on  which 
the  love  matters  of  the  people  of  quality  fail  to  look 
absurd.  It  is  the  most  refined  of  all  the  comedies, 
and  mingles  comedy,  humour,  and  pathos  in  an  un- 
wonted combination. 

As  Yon  Like  It  is  perhaps  the  most  pleasing,  in 
the  popular  judgment,  of  all  the  comedies.  It  seems 
to  have  been  written  in  a  vision  of  sheer  ro-  as  you 
mance,  centring  about  Arden,  home  of  the  ■^''^^^'• 
Robin  Hoods  in  France,  and  inspired  by  Lodge's 
novel  of  Rosalynde.  It  is  an  idyl  of  the  forest,  of 
emancipated,  unconventional  existence ;  and  the  main 
incidents  are  managed  without  much  reason  or 
probability.  Rosalind  is  the  impersonation  of  pure 
womanhood,  unweighted  with  philosophy,  or  heavy, 
self-conscious  declamation,  and  saved  by  adversity 
from  the  vice  of  selfishness.  Orlando  is  well  born, 
but  reared  meanly  as  a  rustic,  and  so  enabled  to  over- 


326  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

match  the  great  wrestler  in  brawn.  He  is  endowed 
for  victory,  that  he  may  win  the  admiration  and  love 
of  Rosalind.  In  Arden  the  differences  wrought  by 
conventionalism  disappear;  Orlando  is  as  acceptable 
as  anybody.  There  have  been  cruel  banishments 
and  wrongs,  these  seeming  in  the  atmosphere  of 
palaces  but  incidental,  inevitable.  In  the  primitive 
simplicity  of  Arden  they  look  monstrous.  Touch- 
stone keeps  the  echo  of  the  old  life  well  in  our  ears, 
yet  with  true  fool  consistency  matches  with  a  wench 
of  sheepfolds.  Touchstone  is  the  most  genial  and 
polished  of  all  clowns,  always  content  to  spare  his 
tongue  rather  than  sting  a  sufferer.  The  deep  and 
searching  glimpses  of  hfe  under  varying  conditions 
constitute  the  chief  charm  of  the  piece.  It  seems 
not  to  have  been  written  for  the  sake  of  any  par- 
ticular idea  or  character,  and  lacks  the  rough  comedy 
of  preceding  plays. 

In  The  Metrkant  of  Venice  Shakespeare's  interest 
appears  to  have  centred  in  Shylock  as  the  typic 
The  Mer-  sixtcenth-ccntury  Jew.  The  study  shows 
chant  of  remarkable  insight  into  the  Hebrew  con- 
"'*^"'  sciousness,  and  goes  far  toward  alleviating 
various  Christian  prejudices  against  the  race.  To 
the  superficial  reader  Shylock  has  too  often  seemed 
nothing  but  the  impersonation  of  greed  and  malice. 
The  story  of  the  bond,  and  of  the  lady  of  Belmont, 
who  donned  the  garb  of  a  lawyer  and  rescued  the 
surety,  probably  attracted  the  author  to  this  theme. 
The  love  part  of  the  play  must  of  course  be  second- 
ary, since  Bassanio  is  a  spendthrift,  and  cannot  be 


GROUPINGS  OF  THE  PLAYS  327 

made  much  of  as  a  hero.  Portia  must  be  clever 
rather  than  —  Hke  her  namesake  in  the  Julius  Ccesar 
—  great,  or  we  shall  regret  the  match.  So,  after 
Shylock,  Antonio  appears  to  hold  the  author's  artistic 
attention,  and  furnishes  the  work  its  name.  Culti- 
vated readers  in  Shakespeare's  time  perhaps  dis- 
cerned, as  we  sometimes  do  not,  the  extraordinary 
marks  of  breeding,  of  instinctive  and  unconscious 
courtesy,  with  which  the  play  begins.  We  are 
inclined  to  put  the  piece  into  the  hands  of  school- 
boys, as  an  approach  to  Shakespeare.  We  were 
wiser  to  save  it  till  at  least  the  primer  of  modern 
gentility  has  been  mastered.  No  people,  no  age, 
has  rivalled  in  generous  and  high-minded  considera- 
tion the  Venetian  aristocracy  of  the  times  in  ques- 
tion. Nothing  short  of  the  noble  fellowship,  and 
sympathy,  and  more  than  fatherly  devotion,  that  we 
see  in  Antonio,  could  have  enabled  him  to  forget  how 
Bassanio  had  abused  his  bounty.  On  no  other  basis 
of  intercourse  and  esteem  could  Antonio  have  been 
made,  in  reason,  to  subscribe  to  such  a  bond.  The 
treatment  of  Portia,  in  the  matter  of  the  caskets, 
is  exquisite,  and  reveals  again  the  author's  infinite 
knowledge  of  woman's  nature.  The  legal  conclu- 
sions that  Shakespeare  makes  Portia  propound  in  the 
trial  scene  have  been  much  criticised,  but  it  is  not 
clear  that  he  intended  them  to  be  different  from  the 
feminine  judgments  that  they  very  palpably  are. 
The  play  is  perhaps  least  satisfying  in  the  repudia- 
tion, by  Jessica,  of  her  father.  Converts  from  Juda- 
ism are  not  made  often  in  just  such  fashion.     The 


328  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

second  love  plot  is  needed  to  give  substance  and  dig- 
nity, by  contrast,  to  the  first. 

There  are  other  plays,  tragedies  as  well  as  come- 
dies, which,  were  such  summarisings  helpful,  might 
be  added  to  the  list  now  finished.  But  there  can  be 
little  profit,  save  sometimes  as  a  clew,  in  anticipating 
the  main  conclusions  of  personal  study.  All  these 
things  may  become  open  secrets  to  the  prepared 
mind.  The  gift  of  insight,  which  we  all  use  so  well 
outside  of  books,  needs  to  be  quickened  by  the  ex- 
pert study  of  a  few  plays.  Any  one  who  can  read 
character  in  actual  life,  can  learn  to  read  it  essentially 
as  well  in  dramas  and  novels. 


VIII 

PERSONAL  STUDY   OF  THE   PLAYS 

It  seems  scarcely  practicable  to  contribute  more 
toward  showing  what  Shakespeare  is,  and  of  what 
worth  he  is  or  may  be  to  the  world,  in  an  introductory, 
provisional  view,  than  has  now  been  done.  All  great 
literature,  as  has  been  illustrated,  is  potential,  meaning 
much  more  than  is  conveyed  or  said.  Enough  has 
been  shown,  it  is  hoped,  to  make  clear  how  Shake- 
speare and  other  masters  communicate  things  that 
cannot  be  told.  The  highest  cannot  be  spoken ;  but 
we  can  be  made,  by  art,  to  experience  it.  To  bore  is 
to  tell,  or  try  to  tell,  the  whole. 

There  is  no  way  to  comprehend  Shakespeare  with 
less  labour  than  is  requisite  to  comprehend  a  single 
play.    To  know  one  of  his  dramas  thoroughly  -po  know 
is  equivalent  to  knowing  Shakespeare.     To  one  piay  is 
have  studied  the  thirty-seven  plays  superfi-  shake- 
cially,  is  not  to  know  him  or  them.     It  were  speare. 
as  wise  to  attempt  studying  a  picture  gallery  over  in 
half-a-dozen  hurried  visits.     All  the  world  is  aware 
how  long  it  takes  to  know  a  painting.     There  is  as 
much  to  learn  in  a  great  play  of  Shakespeare's  as 
in  any  product  of  the  painter's  art.     The  man  whose 
desire  is  to  come  into  acquaintance  and    fellowship 
with   Shakespeare    and   Hke   master   spirits,  and   is 

329 


330  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE? 

willing  to  use  his  leisure  to  that  end,  may  achieve 
his  wish.  To  make  this  practicable,  inductive  out- 
Useofthe  li^es,  in  the  shape  of  Questions,  have  been 
Questions,  added  to  this  volume.  They  reduce  the 
unit  of  difficulty,  yet  leave  all  the  ethic  and  artistic 
meaning  to  be  discerned  independently  by  the  learner. 
All  the  discussions,  indeed,  of  the  several  plays  con- 
sidered, except  the  first,  were  intended  to  prepare 
for  work  of  this  kind.  In  the  case  of  Cynibelme,  the 
rights  of  the  reading  public,  it  is  confessed,  have 
been  invaded.  But  this  one  piece  was  sacrificed,  as 
was  in  part  explained  at  the  time,  for  the  sake  of  the 
rest  and  of  Shakespeare  at  large.  No  Questions  on 
this  play,  consequently,  have  been  appended  ;  but  The 
Winter's  Tale  and  Romeo  and  Juliet  are  analysed 
entire,  and  without  reference  to  the  partial  treatment 
attempted  in  earlier  pages. 

The  first  desideratum,  in  the  Shakespeare  work 
proposed,  is  an  edition  that  explains  all  allusions 
The  litera-  and  all  Elizabethan  peculiarities  in  the  text. 
simke-  -^^  ^"^  '^^^  much  aid,  until  some  personal 
speare.  comprehension  of  the  given  play  has  been 
reached,  to  resort  to  Shakespeare  commentaries  and 
manuals.  The  impressions  of  other  people  cannot 
be  substituted  for  ours,  and  were  this  possible,  would 
only  retard  the  development  of  insight.  The  problems 
of  literary  discernment  are  our  own,  and  must  be 
worked  out  patiently,  like  school  tasks,  without  copy- 
ing from  our  fellows.  After  we  have  grasped  the 
essential  meanings  of  a  play,  it  is  well  to  examine 
the  opinions  of  critics  concerning  it,  and  weigh  our 


PERSONAL  STUDY  OF  THE  PLAYS  33 1 

conclusions  in  the  light  of  theirs.  There  are  many 
helps  of  this  kind,  and  the  number  is  almost  daily 
increasing.  Chief  among  books  for  collateral  or 
supplemental  reference  are  the  Variorum  volumes 
of  Mr.  Furness,  which  give  not  only  variant  readings 
of  the  text,  but  likewise  some  of  the  best  notes  and 
comments  from  all  expounders.  The  list  includes, 
at  present  writing,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Macbeth,  Ham- 
let, Lear,  Othello,  Merchant  of  Venice,  As  Vou  Like  It, 
The  Tempest,  Midsunwier  Night's  Dream,  The  Win- 
ters Tale,  and  Much  Ado.  Among  books  that  may 
be  profitably  consulted,  after  study  of  a  play,  are 
Coleridge's  Lectures  on  Shakespeare ;  Gervinus's 
Shakespeare  Commentaries ;  Dowden's  Shakspere, 
his  Mind  and  Art ;  Hudson's  Shakespeare,  his  Life, 
Art,  and  Characters  ;  Grant  White's  Studies  in  Shake- 
speare ;  Mrs.  Jameson's  Characteristics  of  Women; 
Ulrici's  Shakespeare's  Dramatic  Art;  Moulton's 
Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatic  Artist;  and  George 
Brandes's  Shakespeare,  A  Critical  Study.  Some  in- 
formation concerning  great  stage  interpreters  of 
principal  plays  can  be  conveniently  reached  in  Dow- 
den's Tjitroduction  to  SJiakespeare,  and  the  reprinted 
papers  of  The  Home  Circle  Library.  For  further 
study  of  Shakespeare  as  man  and  author,  J.  O. 
Halliwell-Phillipps's  Outlines  of  the  Life  of  Shake- 
speare, and  Sidney  Lee's  Life,  will  be  most  useful. 
They  have  been  drawn  upon  largely  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  biographical  sketch  in  the  present  volume. 
For  a  summary  of  results  in  the  investigation  of 
Shakespeare's    form,   especially   with    reference    to 


332  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE? 

the  chronology  of  certain  plays,  the  Introduction 
to  The  Leopold  SJiakspere  will  be  found  suggestive 
and  valuable.  More  extended  reading  upon  this 
topic  would  carry  the  student  to  the  Transactions  of 
the  New  Shakspere  Society,  and  other  works  not  in 
the  scope  of  the  present  treatise.  Any  working 
Shakespeare  library  should  include  further  Abbott's 
Shakespearian  Gratmnar,  Schmidt's  Shakespeare  Lexi- 
con, and  Bartlett's  Concordance  to  Shakespeare. 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 


OUTLINE   QUESTIONS 

I 

THE  WINTER'S  TALE 
ACT  I 

SCENE   I 

1  («)  What  is  the  point  in  having  one  of  these  courtiers 
address  the  other,  by  name,  at  the  very  beginning?  {b)  How 
does  the  author  manage  to  make  known  to  his  audience,  which 
is  without  printed  programmes,  what  countries  are  represented 
here?  How  too  does  he  show  to  which  the  courtiers  respectively 
belong?  {c)  What  'diflference'  (1.  4)  between  Bohemia  and 
Sicily  does  Archidamus  seem  to  have  in  mind? 

2  («)  Does  it  appear  (11.  6-8)  that  Camillo  and  Archidamus 
are  introduced  for  their  own  sakes,  or  for  some  other  reason? 
{b)  What  does  Archidamus  (11.  9-14)  imply  as  to  the  character 
of  the  entertainment  that  the  Sicilian  court  has  furnished  or  is 
furnishing?  {c)  Is  there  any  hint  as  to  whether  the  entertain- 
ment, or  the  visit,  has  been  prolonged  or  brief  ?  {d)  Can  you 
explain  why  Camillo  (11.  18,  19)  seems  willing  to  accept,  instead 
of  deprecating,  the  immoderate  acknowledgments  tendered  by 
Archidamus  ? 

3  (a)  What  is  implied  (11.  23,  24)  by  Camillo  as  to  the  extent 
to  which  Bohemia  has  put  himself  under  obligation  to  Sicily? 
{b)  What  purpose,  to  us,  does  the  rest  of  his  paragraph  serve? 
(f)  Does  there  seem  to  be  any  reason  why  Mamillius  is  men- 
tioned, but  not  his  mother?  {d)  Why  is  the  scene  cast  in  prose? 
{e)  Why  could  not  this  scene  be  dispensed  with  ? 

335 


336  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE?  [I.  li 

SCENE   II 

1  (a)  At  what  time  of  year  (c/.  i.  6)  are  we  to  understand 
that  this  play  opens?  (d)  In  what  season,  then,  must  Polyxenes 
have  begun  his  nine  months'  stay?  (c)  In  the  story  from  which 
Shakespeare  drew,  Sicily  was  the  visiting  king,  and  Bohemia  the 
host.  Is  there  any  apparent  reason  why  the  author  has  reversed 
these  r6les?  (d)  Which  would  be  the  pleasanter  country  at 
any  time  of  year?  Besides,  how  far  does  this  absurd  lingering 
of  Polyxenes  seem  due  to  the  character  of  the  man?  (e)  What 
in  the  tone  or  language  (11.  1-9)  of  the  first  paragraph  would 
seem  meant  to  be  significant  as  to  the  strength  and  caliber  of 
this  king? 

2  (a)  Do  you  think  that  Leontes,  from  his  reply  (11.  9,  10), 
expects  that  his  friend  will  withdraw  speedily?  (fi)  Do  you 
imagine  that  Leontes  is  now  exercised  for  the  first  time  over  his 
friend's  visit?  With  what  evident  feeling  and  motive  does  he 
speak?  (c)  What  is  the  effect  of  his  utterance  upon  Polyxenes? 
(d)  Why  does  Polyxenes  add  to  his  reply  '  I  have  stay'd  to 
tire  your  royalty '  ?  (<?)  Is  the  effect  upon  Leontes  of  saying 
this  apparently  what  he  expected? 

3  (a)  Why  is  the  next  utterance  (1.  16)  so  curt?  (d)  Why 
does  Leontes,  having  his  wish,  propose  another  week  of  stay? 

(c)  What  would  have  been  the  harm  of  letting  Polyxenes  with- 
draw, on  a  day's  notice,  as  he  proposes?  (d)  What  of  Leontes 
proposing  to  compromise  by  making  the  limit  three  days  and  a 
half  ?     How  far  is  it  large-minded  and  royal? 

4  (a)  How  can  Polyxenes  insist  now  (11.  23,  24)  that  his 
affairs  'do  even  drag'  him  homeward?  (b)  Why  does  he  allude 
(1.  26)  to  the  charge  or  expense  of  his  staying?  (c)  Why  does 
Leontes  call  on  the  Queen  to  speak?  (d)  What  do  you  find  in 
the  tone  and  spirit  of  his  words  to  her?  {e)  Why  has  she  not 
spoken  before? 

5  (a)  Why  does  the  Queen  say  that  she  was  intending  to 
hold  her  peace  even  longer?     Do  you  think  this  true  wholly? 

(d)  What  means  (11.  31,  32)  'this  satisfaction  the  bygone  day 
proclaim'd '  ?  (c)  Do  you  judge,  from  the  next  two  lines, 
that  she  thinks  her  husband  and  Polyxenes  are  merely  fencing? 
(</)  Is  the  answer  (1.  33)  of  Leontes  literal  or  ironical? 


I.  II]  THE   WINTER'S  TALE  337 

6  (a)  Is  there  any  reason  apparently  why  Hermione  speaks 
thus  of  Polyxenes,  and  not  to  him?  {b)  Does  she  mean  to  im- 
ply, in  (11.  34-37)  her  next  paragraph,  that  Polyxenes  does  not 
care  for  his  family?  {c)  Do  you  think  that  he  has  a  wife? 
{d)  Why,  since  she  will  allow  Leontes  (11.  39-42)  a  month 
beyond  the  limit,  does  she  not  adventure  a  larger  borrowing? 

7  {a)  On  what  invitation  does  Hermione  base  (11.  44,  45) 
her  seeming  importunities?  {h)  Do  you  think  she  wishes  to 
keep  Polyxenes  from  staying?  (c)  Would  you  have  remained 
on  such  requests  as  hers?  {d)  Why  does  Polyxenes,  under 
such  conditions,  accede? 

8  («)  Why  does  Hermione  at  once  (1.  60)  start  talk  'of  my 
lord's  tricks  and  yours'?  {b)  Why  does  she  solicit  (11.  65,  66) 
uncivilly  from  her  friend  testimony  that  her  husband  was  '  the 
verier  wag  o'  the  two'?  {c)  Why  does  not  Leontes  talk,  and 
why  does  she  not  try  to  engage  him  as  well  as  Polyxenes  in  the 
new  topic?  {d)  Do  you  think  the  Queen  enjoys  the  advantage 
(11.  80-86)  that  she  soon  wins  over  Polyxenes?  Why  does  she 
push  it? 

9  (a)  Why  should  Leontes  (1.  86)  now  speak,  and  in  the  way 
he  does?  {b)  Does  Hermione  probably  recognise  the  spirit  of 
the  question  which  he  asks?  {c)  What  does  her  husband  wish 
or  intend  apparently  by  his  next  remark?  {d)  Does  the  rest  of 
the  paragraph  (11.  88,  89)  seem  to  go  well  with  what  he  has  just 
said? 

10  (a)  With  what  feeling  does  Hermione  take  up  the  last 
utterance  of  her  husband?  (1^)  Does  she  seem  brilliant  and 
facile  in  the  lines  (11.  90-101)  that  follow?  Do  you  get  the 
impression  that  she  likes  wit-combats  of  this  kind?  (c)  Does 
she  seem  troubled?  {d)  What  is  the  effect  (11.  101-105)  of  her 
words  upon  Leontes  ?  (i?)  Is  what  he  says  wholly  genuine,  has 
his  feeling  altered? 

1 1  (a)  What  does  Hermione  do  when  Leontes  has  .said  his 
answer?  (1^)  Why  does  she  not  prolong  the  interview  that  she 
was  called  in  to  save?  (<:)  What  did  Elizabethan  etiquette 
require  when  a  lady  wished  to  turn  aside,  as  here,  from  some 
group  or  station  in  an  audience-room?     (^)  Do  you  think  Shake- 


338  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE?  [I.  n 

speare  expects  us  to  approve  Leontes  here  (11.  1 08- 119)  in  what 
he  says?  Do  you  think  he  intends  to  make  us  detest  him? 
Why  does  he  cause  us  to  overhear  the  King's  words? 

12  (a)  Has  the  smutched  nose  of  Mamillius  any  influence 
with  us  as  regards  his  mother?  (d)  Do  you  find  the  King's 
jealousy  wholly  unjustifiable  up  to  this  point?  (c)  How  far  are 
you  inclined  to  blame  him  for  what  he  goes  on  (11.  128-146)  to 
say? 

13  (a)  Does  Hermione  hear  anything  of  what  Leontes  is  say- 
ing to  the  boy  and  to  himself?  (<^)  What  apparently  (1.  146) 
has  Polyxenes  noticed?  (t)  What  word  in  Hermione's  reply 
has  stress?  (d)  What  does  Hermione  mean  in  asking  her  hus- 
band (1.  150)  if  he  is  ^ moved'?  (e)  How  far  is  Leontes  telling 
(11.  151-160)  the  truth? 

14  (a)  What  do  you  infer  (1.  155)  is  the  King's  age? 
(d)  What  pleases  him  (1.  162)  in  Mamillius's  answer?  (c)  Do 
you  see  any  motive  or  animus  in  (11.  163-165)  Leontes's  ques- 
tion? (d)  If  the  lad's  mother  were  living,  would  or  would  not 
Leontes  be  likely,  in  his  present  mood,  to  allude  to  her? 

15  (a)  Why  does  Leontes  now  (1.  172)  withdraw  from  his 
friend  and  the  Queen?  (d)  Why  has  not  Shakespeare  had  the 
Queen  and  Polyxenes  withdraw,  before  this,  from  the  King? 
(t)  Why  does  Hermione  (11.  177,  178)  make  answer  as  she  does? 
{d)  Is  it  apparent  why  Mamillius  (1.  190)  does  not  go  away  as 
bid?  (e)  What  is  in  his  mind  seemingly  that  prompts  (1.  208) 
his  last  words  ? 

16  (a)  Why  has  the  author  withdrawn  Mamillius  and  his 
mother  with  Polyxenes?  (d)  What  has  he  accomplished  by  use 
of  them,  and  how  has  Mamillius  helped?  (c)  Why  does  the 
author  not  close  the  scene  ?  (d)  What  explanation  of  Camillo's 
presence  during  what  has  passed? 

17  (a)  Does  Leontes  apparently  wish  or  expect  Camillo  to 
behave  as  if  he  understood  what  he  had  heard  and  witnessed? 
(d)  Why  does  not  Camillo  so  behave?  (c)  What  is  the  result 
of  his  attempt  to  be  evasive?  (d)  Do  you  like  this  man  Camillo? 
Why?  (e)  How  does  Leontes  first  (11.  235-241,  242-249)  at- 
tempt to  control  Camillo?  (/)  Do  you  think  that  the  King  is 
yet  clear  as  to  what  he  would  have  Camillo  do  ? 


I.  II]  THE  WINTER'S  TALE  339 

18  (a)  Does  Leontes  recommend  himself  in  his  open  conver- 
sation about  his  Queen?  (d)  What  sort  of  a  plot  would  you 
expect  such  a  man,  in  such  a  state  of  mind,  to  make?  (c)  Do 
you  think  Camillo  respects  the  Queen,  or  cares  for  her  welfare? 
(ei)  Why  is  Leontes  made  to  speak  (11.  313,  314)  of  Camillo's 
advancement,  is  it  for  Camillo's  sake  or  ours?  (e)  Why  does  he 
consent  (11.  333,  334)  to  believe,  and  to  do  the  crime?  (/)  What 
of  the  condition  that  (11.  335,  336)  he  requires,  is  it  significant? 
(^)  What  has  been  accomplished  in  this  part  of  the  scene? 
(/i)  Why  was  this  not  made  into  a  scene  by  itself  ? 

19  (a)  Why  does  the  author  have  Camillo  utter  the  soliloquy 
(11.  351-364)  that  follows  the  agreement?  (d)  Why  does  he 
(1.  364)  refuse  to  salute  Polyxenes?  (t)  Why  has  the  King 
(11.  370-375)  failed  to  keep  his  promise  to  seem  friendly?  (d)  Do 
you  think  Camillo  intended  at  first  to  betray  the  plot?  (6*)  Show 
how  the  understanding  between  him  and  Polyxenes  is  evolved. 
(/)  Do  you  recognise  any  Sicilian,  rather  than  Bohemian, 
characteristics  in  Leontes? 

20  (a)  Does  Polyxenes  show  that  he  has  had  suspicions  of 
the  jealousy  that  he  has  caused?  (d)  Does  he  appear  to  realise 
that  the  Queen  may  in  any  manner  suffer  or  be  profited  by  the 
course  he  takes  ?  (c)  Do  you  feel  sure  of  the  reason  ?  (^/)  Do 
you  recognise  any  Bohemian,  rather  than  Sicilian,  characteristics 
(c/.  I  (c),  above)  in  this  man?  (e)  Does  the  scene,  all  things 
considered,  seem  long?  (/")  Does  it  show  marks  of  haste  or 
condensation  anywhere? 


ACT   II 

SCENE   I 

1  (a)  Do  your  impressions  of  Hermione  appear  to  be  the 
same  now  as  in  the  scene  just  finished?  (d)  Does  Mamillius, 
now  that  his  nose  has  had  attention,  seem  to  have  the  same 
mother  that  he  had  before?  (c)  Why  is  he  made  (II.  5,  6)  to 
object  to  the  petting  of  the  First  Lady?  (li)  Why  is  he  made 
(11.  7-1 1 )  to  give  his  observations  concerning  brows? 

2  (a)  Are  boys  of  Mamillius's  age  generally  found  in  conver- 
sation with  their  elders?  (1^)  Was  Mamillius  at  play  with  his 
toys  when  the  scene  opened  ?  (c)  What  do  you  infer  from  this, 
and  from  (1.  22)  ^I  am  for  you  again'?  (d)  What  do  you  find 
in  the  circumstance  that  this  lad  seems  to  tell  his  mother  stories 
that  he  has  not  heard  from  her?  Where  does  he  get  them? 
(e)  Is  there  anything  significant  in  the  way  he  holds  to  his  sen- 
tence (11.  29,  30),  without  restarting,  in  spite  of  the  interruption? 

3  (a)  Can  you  see  the  object  of  bringing  Mamillius  and  his 
mother  thus  together  in  the  foreground?  (d)  What  has  given 
Leontes  the  impulse  to  come  here?  (c)  Why  does  he  bring 
along  his  lords?  (d)  What  did  he  think  or  intend  to  do  on 
finding  Hermione?  (e)  What  does  he  do  (11.  36-53)  in  the  first 
moments?     (/)  What  makes  him  disappoint  himself  ? 

4  (a)  What  actifyn  seems  to  accompany  (1.  56)  'Give  me  the 
boy'?  {l?)  Can  you  find  the  motive  for  this?  (c)  Are  you  sure 
as  to  what  lies  back  (1.  58)  of  Hermione's  inquiry?  (d)  What 
can  have  been  the  reason  of  the  King's  paragraph  (11.  64-78) 
to  the  lords?  (e)  Why  should  Hermione  answer  what  is  not 
addressed  to  her?  (/')  How  far  does  she  show  excitement  or 
humiliation  or  grief  ?  (g)  How  would  most  women,  in  such  a 
presence,  at  such  a  moment,  have  behaved? 

5  (a)  After  Leontes  has  again  spoken,  what  is  prevailingly 
her  feeling?     (d)  Do  you  take  it  that  Leontes  intended,  when 

340 


II.  I]  THE  WINTER'S  TALE  34 1 

he  came,  to  condemn  (1.  104)  beforehand  those  who  might  be 
minded  to  speak  for  her?  (c)  Do  you  think  he  intended  to 
apprehend  her  in  just  this  way?  (d)  What  of  the  force,  and 
the  greatness  of  it,  that  defeats  him  thus? 

6  (a)  Is  it  unwomanly  and  weak  that  Hermione  should  now 
(II.  107-115)  address  the  lords?  {d)  Why  does  she  not  appeal 
to  them  to  save  her?  Can  you  imagine  such  a  thing  happening 
under  present  circumstances?  (c)  Why  is  it  that  Hermione  feels 
no  dread  of  anything?  (d)  Do  you  suppose  the  lords  feel  any 
such  fear  as  she  is  lacking  in? 

7  («)  Does  Leontes  think  (1.  115)  that  he  is  kept  from  speak- 
ing? (d)  Does  Hermione  feel,  and  intend  to  exploit,  her  su- 
premacy over  all  the  rest?  Does  she  really  give  honour  here  to 
whom  honour  is  due?  (c)  Do  you  think  the  King  has  ever 
felt  the  effect  of  her  displacing,  silencing  personality  before? 
(^/)  Does  the  subordination  that  she  has  effected  here  seem  due 
to  constant  forces  of  personality,  or  to  a  new  sentiment  or  mood  ? 
(1?)  Does  Hermione  seem  like  one  who  would  wish  to  rule  her 
husband  ?     Do  you  think  her  inclined  to  shrewishness  or  egotism  ? 

8  (a)  Why  does  not  Leontes  say  the  things  he  is  so  desirous 
of  uttering?  Has  Hermione  really  left  for  him  since  no  pause? 
(i)  What  do  you  find  in  (11.  1 16-124)  her  final  paragraph? 
(c)  When  do  you  think  Leontes  gives  (1.  125)  his  order,  before 
or  after  the  Queen  has  set  forth?  (d)  What  indeed  does  his 
order,  or  (1.  103)  the  previous  one,  really  call  for?  Were  this  a 
low  criminal,  what  would  his  guards  be  doing  or  have  done? 
(e)  What  do  they  do,  how  do  they  'guard'  the  Queen? 
(/)  Why  do  they  not  obey  the  King,  and  why  does  he  not  call 
them  to  account  for  failing  to  proceed  as  he  intended? 

9  (a)  What  has  been  accomplished  so  far  in  this  scene? 
(i)  Why  should  not  a  new  scene  begin  at  this  point?  Does 
the  part  of  the  play  that  we  have  had  seem  self-sufiicing  or  pre- 
liminary? (c)  Which  of  the  lords  that  now  speak  is  specifically 
our  proxy?  (d)  What  comes  of  the  dialogue,  up  to  1.  180,  be- 
tween Leontes  and  his  lords?  (g)  What  is  the  effect  on  us,  as 
regards  both  Leontes  and  the  Queen,  of  knowing  that  the  case 
has  been  referred  to  Delphi?  (/)  What  does  Leontes  intend 
(1.  197)  apparently  to  say  in  public? 


342  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [H.  il 

SCENE   11 

1  {a)  Would  it  have  made  any  difference  in  our  impressions 
if  Paulina  had  come  with  a  lady  instead  of  this  'Gentleman'  for 
her  usher?  {b)  What  do  you  say  of  her  manner  or  bearing  with 
the  Gaoler;  is  it  unwomanly?  (c)  Why  does  Shakespeare  have 
the  Gaoler  require  that  the  attendants  (1.  13,  14)  be  withdrawn? 
(^d)  Why  does  Paulina  say  (1.  26)  'a  boy''  f 

2  (a)  Why  does  not  Paulina  see  the  incongruity  (11.  31-35 
and  37-39)  between  the  two  things  she  proposes?  (^)  Do  you 
think  the  Queen  will  take  kindly  to  the  idea  of  having  her  child 
carried  to  the  King?  {c)  If  she  does,  how  will  you  explain  her 
yielding?  {d)  Does  Paulina  seem  of  stronger  will  and  presence 
than  Hermione?  (^)  Do  your  impressions  of  Hermione  seem  to 
have  undergone  any  change  since  Paulina  appeared?  Can  you 
explain  what  has  really  happened? 

3  {a)  Do  the  think  the  birth  of  this  daughter,  in  the  jail, 
has  made  any  change  in  Hermione's  feeling  about  her  troubles? 
{b)  Would  it  not  have  been  better,  dramatically,  if  the  author 
had  permitted  us  to  see  the  interior  of  the  prison?  (r)  Why 
does  not  the  Gaoler,  as  a  matter  of  course,  propose  to  get  per- 
mission from  the  King  (11.  57,  58)  to  pass  the  child?  {d)  How 
is  it  that  Hermione,  though  disgraced  and  helpless,  has  (1.  64) 
the  Gaoler's  sympathy?  {e)  How  do  you  think  the  feeling  about 
her  is  in  Sicily?     (/)  What  is  this  scene  for? 

SCENE   III 

1  (a)  What  do  the  first  six  words  tell  us?  (^)  Is  the  reason 
that  the  King  gives  the  right  one?  (c)  Why  does  he  wish 
Hermione  destroyed?  {d)  What  word  in  1.  11  has  stress? 
Who  has  told  the  boy  the  dishonour  of  his  mother?  {e)  What 
means 'fix'd  the  shame  on't  in  himself?  (/)  How  fully  does 
Leontes  seem  to  realise  the  meaning  of  what  he  is  made  to 
tell  us  here? 

2  (a)  Who  is  meant  (1.  18)  by  hhn?  (b)  Has  Paulina 
chanced  upon  a  good  hour  to  appear  with  the  child  before  the 
King?  (c)  Do  you  think  that  the  author  has  prepared  Paulina 
and  the  King  especially  in  order  that  her  visit  may  be  successful? 
{d)  Do  you  imagine  that  Paulina's  voice  is  soft,  and  that  she 


II.  Ill]  THE   WINTER'S  TALE  343 

uses  low  tones  in  the  King's  anteroom  ?  (e)  How  far  is  she  happy 
in  the  selection  of  an  opening  topic? 

3  (a)  Can  you  think  of  any  reason  why  the  King  has  charged 
that  Paulina,  more  than  other  court  women,  should  be  kept  away? 
(d)  Do  you  think  that  Antigonus,  speaking  (1.  45)  of  'your  dis- 
pleasure's peril  and  on  mine,'  was  wholly  serious?  (c)  Does  the 
King  appear  capable,  even  in  his  present  mood,  of  appreciating 
the  humour  of  it  ?  (d)  Do  you  think  Antigonus  really  proud  (1.  50) 
of  his  henpecked  condition?  (e)  Can  you  explain  how  it  is  that 
Paulina  has  never  learned  the  existence  or  use  of  such  a  thing  as 
tact? 

4  (a)  Why  has  the  author  made  Paulina  such  a  person  as  will 
drive  the  King,  as  at  once  (1.  61)  happens,  to  force  her  from  his 
presence?  (d)  The  guards  again,  as  when  bidden  in  the  first 
scene  (1.  103)  of  this  act  to  remove  Hermione,  fail  to  obey.  Is 
it  for  like  reasons?     (c)  Do  you  think  any  contrast  is  intended? 

(d)  In  what  attitude  do  you  see  Paulina  (11.  63,  64)  in  her  defi- 
ance of  the  King's  men?  (e)  Do  you  understand  how  she  can 
propose  to  leave  the  child?  (/)  Which  would  engage  your  own 
attention  chiefly,  were  the  scene  actual,  at  this  moment,  Paulina 
and  the  soldiers,  or  the  child? 

5  (a)  How  does  the  action  of  the  King  intensify  the  situa- 
tion? (6)  Why  does  the  author  wish  the  excitement  and  confu- 
sion enhanced?  (c)  Was  or  was  not  the  offence  implied  in 
'Traitors'  (1.  72)  likely  to  be  considered  serious  in  Elizabethan 
times?  {d)  How  do  you  think  Antigonus  looks  when  Paulina 
(11.  76-79)  prevents  his  obedience  to  the  King's  command?  Why 
does  not  he  speak?  {e)  Why  is  not  the  King  infuriated  at  his 
hesitation? 

6  (a)  In  whose  power  now  is  the  child?  Would  Paulina  be 
permitted,  if  she  willed,  to  carry  it  back  to  its  mother?  (i^)  What 
has  been  accomplished  thus  far  in  this  scene?  (c)  Does  Paulina 
really  intend  to  exasperate  the  King  further?  (d)  Do  you  think 
the  King's  statement  (11.  90,  91),  which  is  not  denied,  a  true  one? 

(e)  How  can  the  King  endure  Paulina's  talk  (11.  97-108)  about 
the  child?  (/)  Can  you  see  why  the  author  makes  her  venture 
it?  (g)  Why  does  the  King  allow  himself  to  be  baffled  thus 
long  of  his  purpose  ? 


344  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE?  [H.  iii 

7  (a)  Where  is  the  child  this  while?  (d)  Do  you  believe  the 
King's  threat  (1.  114)  means  anything?  (c)  Are  you  concerned 
more,  at  this  moment,  for  the  child  or  for  Paulina?  (d)  In  the 
inevitable  moment  that  is  approaching,  what  do  you  think  Paulina 
will  do?  Will  she  make  good  (11.  62,  63)  her  threat?  (e)  Was 
there  any  special  point  in  Elizabethan  times  in  (I.  121)  'on  your 
allegiance'?     (_/")  Is  there  any  effect  from  using  it  in  this  case? 

8  (a)  What,  from  Paulina's  language  (1.  125),  do  we  know  is 
taking  place?  (d)  Is  or  is  not  change  indicated  (11.  127  and  130) 
in  'What  needs  these  hands'  'So,  so'?  (c)  Why  does  she, 
in  the  last  of  these  lines,  say  'we'?  (d)  Why  has  she  not 
resisted  the  effort  to  eject  her?  (e)  Has  her  failure  to  do  so 
made  us  note  and  feel  the  abandonment  of  the  child  more  fully? 

9  (a)  What  further  step  has  now  been  taken  in  this  scene? 
(d)  Does  the  King  believe  what  he  says  (1.  131)  to  Antigonus 
about  his  wife's  behaviour?  (c)  Why  has  he  not  proceeded 
against  the  child's  life  till  now?  (d)  What  would  you  be  will- 
ing to  have  happen  to  the  child,  provided  it  be  saved  (11.  132- 
134)  from  the  fate  demanded  by  the  King?  (e)  How  far  do  you 
suppose  the  author  intended  and  expected  this  feeling?  (/)  Is 
there  any  justice,  or  was  there,  according  to  Elizabethan  no- 
tions, in  making  a  man  responsible  for  the  conduct  of  his  wife? 
(g)  Why  does  not  the  King  first  punish  Paulina  herself  for  her 
defiance  and  disrespect? 

10  (a)  Has  or  has  not  the  First  Lord  spoken  before  in  this 
scene?  (d)  What  qualities  do  you  discern  in  him?  (c)  What 
motives  prompt  him  to  cross  the  King  at  this  most  dangerous 
moment?  (d)  Why  does  the  King  yield?  (e)  Why  should  he 
not  now  turn  to  some  other  of  his  lords  or  servants?  (/)  Why 
does  he  extort  in  advance  the  oath  ? 

1 1  (a)  If  Antigonus  had  not  been  henpecked,  do  you  or  do 
you  not  think  he  would  have  accepted  such  a  commission? 
(i)  Can  you  understand  how  he  can  repeat  (11.  184,  185)  his 
oath,  yet  declare  that  immediate  death  had  been  more  merci- 
ful? Can  you  comprehend  the  nature,  the  consciousness  of  such 
a  man?  (c)  Do  you  think  the  character  unreal?  (d)  Do  the 
words  of  Antigonus  (11.  185-187)  to  the  child  make  the  moment 
harder  or  easier  for  us  to  bear?     (^)  Does  the  announcement  of 


II.  Ill]  THE   WINTER'S   TALE  345 

the  messengers  make  or  not  make  the  exit  of  Antigonus  with  the 
child  more  practicable  to  ourselves?     Why? 

12  (a)  What  is  the  motive  (1.  197)  of  the  messengers'  has- 
tening? (d)  Does  it  seem  likely  that  they  have  hurried  also 
before  arriving  at  the  shores  of  this  island?  (t)  If  the  oracle  is 
to  determine  the  truth  of  the  King's  accusations,  why  does  he 
summon  a  session?  {d)  How  or  why,  while  the  Queen  lives, 
is  the  King's  heart  (1.  206)  a  burthen  to  him?  (e)  Do  you 
realise  how  far  the  author  has  advanced  the  plot,  and  how  sternly 
he  has  controlled  our  sympathies,  since  the  opening  of  this  scene  ? 
Explain. 


ACT   III 


SCENE   I 


I  (a)  Why  are  these  messengers  made  to  be  talking  yet,  even 
in  Sicily,  of  their  experiences  at  Delphi  ?  (fi)  Is  there  any  differ- 
entiation attempted  in  the  characters  of  the  two- men?  (c)  Do 
they  or  do  they  not  know  the  purport  of  the  response  they 
carry?  (<^)  Do  you  think  it  fairly  possible  to  question  whether 
they  have  genuine  despatches  from  Delphi  or  not?  (e)  Do  you 
think,  from  their  call  (1.  21)  for  fresh  horses,  that  they  have  not 
yet  started  ?  Is  there  Folio  authority  for  the  setting  of  the  scenes  ? 
(/)  What  is  the  purpose  of  this  scene?  Does  it  serve  other  pur- 
poses than  one? 

SCENE   II 

1  (a)  Do  you  take  it  that  in  Sicily  the  King  usually  opened 
the  sessions  in  person?  (d)  Does  he  seem  to  show  humiliation, 
or  regret,  or  some  other  feeling?  (c)  Has  the  author  presented 
Hermione  and  Paulina  before?  (d)  Does  the  author  seem  to 
need  Paulina  here  in  the  same  manner  as  before?  (e)  What 
points  in  character  in  the  two  women  are  there  in  common? 

2  (a)  Does  Hermione's  strength,  in  her  first  paragraph  of 
defence,  seem  or  not  seem  unwomanly?  Does  or  does  not  the 
diction  seem  masculine?  (^)  What  qualities  of  greatness  in  sen- 
timent and  spirit  are  apparent  in  it?  (c)  How  much  of  imperial 
presuming,  of  undeference  like  Paulina's  to  the  King's  place  and 
person,  can  you  find  in  it?  (d)  Does  Hermione  seem  changed 
in  any  way  since  her  imprisonment?  (e)  Does  Leontes  rise  in 
repose  and  dignity  in  (11.  55-58)  his  first  interruption?  Why? 
(/")  How  far  does  Hermione  lose  repose  and  dignity  in  attempt- 
ing to  reply  to  the  strictures  of  her  husband  ? 

3  (a)  After  Hermione  resumes  her  defence  do  you  discern 
further  qualities  in  (11.  62-77)  her  speaking  of  Polyxenes  and 
Camillo  ?     (d)  Can  you  imagine  what  Leontes  has  to  base  (11.  78, 

346 


III.  II]  THE   WINTER'S  TALE  347 

79)  his  new  innuendo  on?  {c)  Can  you  explain  why  Hermione 
does  not  give  way  to  vituperation  and  grief  on  his  reference 
(1.  88)  to  her  babe?  {d)  How  can  Leontes  publicly  prejudge 
(11.  91,  92)  her  guilty  when  he  has  promised  a  just  and  open 
trial?  What  feelings  or  forces  compel  him  to  act  in  this  way? 
(<?)  What  effect  does  his  threatening  have  upon  his  wife? 
if)  What  new  sentiments  and  qualities  do  you  find  in  (11.  92- 
1 1 7)  her  paragraph  at  large  ? 

4  (<z)  Is  the  First  Lord  officially  entitled  to  speak  in  this 
court?  (<J)  Is  this  the  point  in  the  proceedings  where  it  was 
intended  that  the  oracle  should  be  introduced?  (c)  Can  you 
explain  why,  in  Hermione's  reference  (II.  120-124)  to  her  father, 
there  is  no  thought  of  appealing  to  him  for  justice  or  protection? 
(rtf)  Do  you  understand  that  this  paragraph  is  said  in  the  hear- 
ing of  the  whole  court?  (e)  What  need  here  of  a  paragraph 
at  all  ? 

5  {a)  What  officer  apparently  administers  the  oath  to  Cleom- 
enes  and  Dion?  {b)  Is  it  dramatically  well  that  we  have  seen 
them  before?  Why?  (t)  Is  there  seemingly  any  reason  why 
Leontes  is  made,  by  (1.  132)  his  order,  to  participate  in  this 
formal  moment  of  suspense?  {d)  Was  it  in  accord  with  court 
etiquette  for  a  group  of  lords  like  this  one  to  break  out.  in  antici- 
pation of  their  chief,  in  a  demonstration?  (<?)  Are  they,  or  are 
they  not,  sure  on  which  side  the  enthusiasm  of  the  King  will 
vent  itself  ?  (/")  Which  seems  the  ampler  feeling,  Hermione's 
or  the  lords'? 

6  {a)  What  does  the  King  mean  (1.  142)  by  'proceed'? 
{b)  Can  you  explain  how  a  servant  could  presume  (1.  143)  to 
interrupt  the  august  sessions,  summoned  for  the  trial  of  a  queen, 
by  such  an  hysterical  intrusion?  (t)  What  is  the  meaning  of 
*  mere  conceit  and  fear,'  exactly  what  has  caused  the  death  of 
the  prince?  {d)  How  far  are  we  to  understand,  from  the  King's 
acknowledgment  (11.  147,  148),  that  he  has  been  insincere  all 
the  while?  (f)  Why  does  not  Hermione  swoon  immediately  on 
knowledge  of  Mamillius's  death?  (/)  Do  you  think  it  or  not 
think  it  hard  for  Leontes  to  say  (11.  150-154  and  154-173)  what 
he  says  in  the  face  of  all  the  sessions  and  the  lords?  Why  does 
not  the  author  have  him  confess  his  villany  in  an  aside?  {^)  To 
what  extent  are  you  changing  your  opinion  of  the  man? 


348  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [HI.  ii 

7  (a)  Does  the  language  of  Paulina,  on  reentering,  seem 
unaffected  and  natural?  Has  her  talk,  the  matter  or  the  manner 
of  it,  at  anytime  seemed  mannish,  masculine?  (d)  How  would 
you  name  her  most  salient  characteristics?  (c)  What  effect  is 
produced  on  us,  as  regards  the  King,  by  (11.  180-200)  her  invec- 
tives? ((i)  Should  you  or  should  you  not  think,  from  (11.  201- 
203)  the  manner  of  her  reference,  that  Hermione  is  really  dead? 
(e)  Why  does  not  Leontes  say  something?  (/")  What  do  you 
say  of  the  climax  (11.  208-215)  '•O  which  she  carries  her  assault? 

8  (a)  What  is  the  effect  of  having  the  King  beg  that  she  go 
on?  (/;)  Does  the  First  Lord  appear  (1.  218)  to  assume  that  the 
Queen  is  already  dead?  (c)  How  does  he  rank  with  the  men 
of  the  play  so  far?  (d)  Can  you  account  now  for  Paulina's 
tears,  and  her  regret  and  asking  for  forgiveness?  (e)  What 
is  the  effect  of  this  as  regards  her,  and  as  regards  the  King? 
(/)  Do  you  think  that  her  tears  are  in  part  (11.  231,  232)  for  the 
loss  of  her  husband?  (g)  Why  has  Shakespeare  put  this  in? 
(/i)  How  long  ago  apparently  did  she  give  her  husband  up? 

9  (a)  Why  should  Leontes  deprecate  the  pity  of  Paulina? 
(I?)  What  do  you  say  of  the  penance  he  proposes,  is  it  manly? 
(c)  What  are  now  your  feelings  toward  this  man?  ((i)  Can  you 
explain  why  he  now  wishes  (II.  235,  243)  to  be  led  to  the  bodies 
of  his  queen  and  son  by  Paulina,  and  not  by  some  one  of  his 
lords? 

SCENE   III 

I  (a)  Has  Antigonus  any  nurse  or  maids  of  honour  with  him 
to  care  for  the  babe?  (d)  How  has  the  business  that  he  has  in 
hand  impressed  apparently  the  crew  ?  Do  you  think  they  know 
what  child  it  is  and  what  is  the  purpose  fully  of  their  voyage? 
(c)  Why  does  not  the  mention  (11.  12,  13)  of  the  creatures  of 
prey  seem  to  stir  Antigonus?  (d)  Do  you  think  you  can  bear 
to  see  him  expose  the  child?  (e)  Why  does  the  author  make 
Antigonus  to  have  had  (11.  17-37)  the  dream  of  the  child's 
mother?  Does  it  help  him  or  us?  (/)  How  do  you  explain 
his  thinking  the  Queen  guilty?  He  did  not  once  think  so. 
(g)  What  do  you  say  of  his  manner  of  parting  with  the  child  ? 
How  far  is  it  consistent  with  his  cruel,  unwavering  purpose? 


Ill,  III]  THE   WINTER'S   TALE  349 

2  (a)  What  is  meant  (1.  47)  by  'character'?  (1^)  And 
what  means  'these'?  And  how  may  they  'both  breed  thee, 
and  still  rest  thine '  ?  (c)  Why  does  the  author  show  us  this 
man  pursued,  while  the  child  stays  safe?  (</)  Is  it,  or  is  it  not, 
removed  from  our  sight?  Why?  (e)  Do  you  find  this  episode 
thus  far  tragical?  Can  you  explain  why?  (/)  Why  does  the 
author  have  Antigonus  perish? 

3  (a)  Why  does  the  text  change  to  prose  ?  (l>)  How  much 
contrast,  dramatic  and  other,  between  the  foregoing  and  the 
situation  now  begun?  Would  the  shepherd,  dressed  as  in  Shake- 
speare's days,  look  more  rustic  or  less  than  such  a  figure  now? 
How  would  the  court  attire  of  Antigonus  compare  with  the  dress 
of  the  gentry  in  present  times?  (c)  What  time  of  the  year  has 
now  been  reached?  (ci)  Does  the  shepherd  seem  drawn  more 
by  his  fondness  for  children,  or  by  the  rich  mantle  and  other 
articles  that  he  sees?  (e)  How  does  the  Clown  look  and  act, 
when  he  appears,  to  call  out  (1.  83)  his  father's  question?  Do 
you  think  he  was  quaking? 

4  (a)  Which  story  of  marvel  gets  precedence  of  the  other? 
Why?  {d)  What  means  (11.  130,  131)  'Let  my  sheep  go,'  and 
what  state  of  mind  does  this  measure  to  us?  (c)  Why  does 
the  shepherd  wish  to  know  (1.  138)  'what'  the  stranger  is? 
(d)  Why  is  the  author  at  pains  to  make  us  know  that  the  body 
of  Antigonus  shall  have  burial?  (e)  Can  you  explain  why  the 
last  part  of  this  scene  is  comedial,  though  it  deals  with  death  ? 


ACT   IV 


SCENE   1 


1  (a)  What  do  you  imagine  was  the  make-up  of  the  actor 
taking  the  part  here  of  Father  Time?  (d)  How  far  do  you  think 
the  effect  of  his  utterance,  if  the  personification  seemed  com- 
plete, would  approach  the  hallucination  that  the  author  wished? 
(c)  What  means  (1.  8)  self-born  hour?  What  may  we  say  that 
each  hour  is  usually  born  of?  (^)  From  the  mention  (11.  22-25) 
of  Florizel  and  Perdita,  what  may  we  infer  this  setting  forward  of 
the  plot  is  for? 

2  («)  How  much  of  Father  Time's  paragraph  is  properly 
Chorus  talk?  {b)  This  scene  has  been  pronounced  spurious  by 
certain  critics.  What  signs  of  Shakespeare's  hand  and  mind 
are  discerned  about  it?  (f)  What  marks  and  features  seem  to 
fix  it  below  the  standard  of  Shakespeare  and  of  the  play? 

SCENE   II 

1  {a)  Why  is  not  Polyxenes  willing  that  Camillo  should  at 
least  go  on  a  visit  to  Sicily?  {b)  How  does  it  chance  that  the 
King's  mind  turns  (11.  28,  29)  to  thoughts  of  his  son  so  sud- 
denly? (f)  Is  it  usual  for  a  prince,  leaving  no  knowledge  of  his 
whereabouts,  to  be  absent  from  court  three  days?  How  far 
would  it  be  possible  to  do  this  without  resorting  to  disguises? 
(i/)  Whose  wealth,  in  the  King's  suspicion  (11.  44-46),  appar- 
ently, has  made  the  homely  shepherd  rich?  {e)  What  has  trans- 
formed the  shepherd,  from  very  nothing  to  an  unspeakable  estate, 
and  how  long  since  did  the  change,  as  it  would  seem,  take  place? 

2  {a)  How  can  Camillo  (1.  48)  have  heard  of  the  shepherd's 
daughter?  Is  he  perhaps  (r/".  11.  36,  37)  especially  intimate  with 
Florizel,  or  is  he  perhaps,  his  guardian?  {b)  What  do  you 
think  of  the  King's  plan  of  reaching  a  conversation  with  the 
shepherd?      Why   does   he   not   summon   the   man    to    court? 

350 


IV.  IV]  THE  WINTER'S  TALE  35 1 

(c)  Shakespeare  evidently  wants  Camillo  along  (11.  57,  58)  at 
the  coming  interview.  Do  you  or  do  you  not  consider  that  he 
has,  by  having  the  King  magnify  a  small  matter,  artistically  pre- 
pared for  it?     {d)  Why  is  the  scene  cast  in  prose? 

SCENE   III 

1  (a)  How  is  Autolycus  dressed  ?  (i>)  Where  was  the  family 
linen  (1.  5)  dried,  in  Shakespeare's  day,  after  washing?  (c)  If 
the  first  three  stanzas  are  intended  to  show  the  character  of  this 
fellow,  what  is  the  interruption  (11.  13,  14)  for?  (^/)  What  does 
Autolycus  mean  (11.  23,  24)  about  his  'traffic,'  and  the  'lesser 
linen'?  (<?)  What  does  he  mean  (1.  27)  by  'caparison,'  and 
(11.  28,  29)  'gallows  and  knock  are  too  powerful'?  (/)  Why 
does  he  cry  out  '  A  prize  ! '  ? 

2  (a)  What  does  Autolycus  mean  (1.  36)  by  'if  the  springe 
hold '  ?  (d)  Why  does  not  the  Clown  see  Autolycus  ?  (c)  What 
is  to  be  judged,  from  (11.  34,  35)  '  fifteen  hundred  shorn,'  as 
to  the  extent  of  the  shepherd's  holdings  ?  ((^)  What  tastes 
do  you  discern,  in  what  the  Clown  says  of  his  sister,  that  you 
would  not  look  for  in  a  shepherd's  daughter  ?  What  especially 
does  he  mean  in  (1.  43)  '  she  lays  it  on '  ?  (e)  What  does  the 
Clown  do,  as  (1.  54)  he  makes  his  outcry  ? 

3  (a)  What  does  Autolycus  get  the  Clown  to  do  ?  (d)  What 
does  he  mean  in  (1.  74)  '  O,  good  sir,  tenderly,  O '  ?  (t)  Why 
is  he  so  unwilling  that  the  Clown  should  think  of  giving  him 
money?  (^/)  Whom  is  Autolycus  describing  (11.  91-93)  as  his 
assailant?  {e)  Why  is  he  disposed  to  decline  (1.  123)  further 
kindness  from  the  Clown  ?  (/)  Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  to  the  credit 
(11.  13,  14)  of  Prince  Florizel  that  this  man  has  been  driven  from 
the  court  ? 

SCENE   IV 

I  {a)  What  differences  in  imaginative  and  in  practical  quality 
between  Florizel's  and  Perdita's  first  paragraphs  to  each  other  ? 
(J>)  What  is  Perdita's  meaning  in  (11.  12-14)  'I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attired,  sworn,  I  think.  To  show  myself  a  glass'  ? 
{c)  How  does  the  author  manage  to  cover,  with  somewhat 
of  plausibility,  the  rather  remarkable  '  extremes '  of  dress  that 


352  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE?  [IV.  iv 

we  see  here  ?  {d)  What  purpose  is  Florizel's  next  utterance 
(11.  14-16)  made  to  serve  ?  {e)  How  far  do  you  think  Perdita, 
from  her  second  paragraph,  willing  to  advance  her  station  ? 

2  {a)  What  'difference'  (1.  17)  probably  does  Perdita  sup- 
pose divides  them  ?  {b)  How  has  the  Prince  been  able,  in  such 
proximity  to  the  palace,  to  keep  his  identity  from  the  shepherd 
folk  he  is  now  to  meet  ?  {c)  Why  should  Perdita,  being,  as 
she  must  suspect,  beautiful,  feel  uncomfortable  in  any  finery  ? 
(^)  What  do  you  say  of  Florizel's  way  of  reassuring  her  in  his 
next  paragraph  ?  (J)  How  much  does  it  weigh  with  Perdita  ? 
(/)  Why  is  not  his  next  argument  of  better  potency  ? 

3  {a)  What  makes  Florizel  sure  (1.  53)  of  Perdita's  ability 
to  entertain  'sprightly'?  {b)  Why  does  the  shepherd  scold 
Perdita,  at  sight,  for  neglecting  guests  that  are  but  just  ap- 
proaching ?  (c)  In  what  sense,  under  the  circumstances,  is  it 
true  that  she  is  (1.  62)  retired  ?  {d)  How  do  you  suppose  that 
Polyxenes  and  Camillo  have  disguised  themselves  ?  {e)  What 
is  probably  now  the  real  age  of  the  King  ? 

4  {a)  How  does  Perdita  chance  to  think  of  flowers,  in  this 
moment  of  embarrassment,  as  a  means  of  welcome  ?  {b)  What 
is  the  meaning  (1.  76)  of 'grace  and  remembrance'  ?  {c)  What 
does  it  signify  that  a  shepherd  girl  of  sixteen  years  greets 
guests  like  these  with  such  a  formula  ?  {d)  What  do  you  say 
of  the  excuse,  after  she  is  reminded  of  her  slip,  that  she  attempts? 
{e)  Is  there  any  point  of  character,  moral  or  mental,  in  her  ready 
acceptance  (1.  97)  of  Polyxenes's  argument  ?  (/)  Why  does 
she  not  yield  to  the  obligation  of  the  principle  if  it  is  true  ?  Is 
there  other  than  a  woman's  reason  ? 

5  (a)  What  do  you  say  of  the  flowers  that  (11.  103-106)  she 
next  bestows,  and  the  manner  of  bestowing  ?  {b)  Which  stands 
in  subordination  to  the  other,  at  this  point,  the  shepherd  girl  to 
the  King,  or  the  opposite  ?  Why  ?  {c)  What  would  be  the 
natural  effect  of  such  a  compliment  as  (11.  109,  1 10)  Camillo's, 
pronounced  by  a  veteran  courtier,  upon  an  unsophisticated 
country  maid?  {d)  Whom  does  she  now  (1.  112)  address? 
And  what  do  you  say  of  the  mind,  the  vision  that  finds  expres- 
sion for  itself,  even  under  embarrassment,  in  such  lines  (11.  115- 


IV.  IV]  THE   WINTER'S  TALE  353 

127)  as  follow  ?     (e)  What  is  Perdita's  meaning  in  11.  134,  135, 
and  what  prompts  her  saying  it  ? 

6  («)  After  the  girls  from  the  neighbouring  farms  take 
(1.  132)  the  flowers,  what  becomes  of  them  and  of  the  swains  ? 
(d)  What  do  you  say  (11.  135-146)  of  FlorizePs  compliment  ? 
(c)  What,  of  Perdita's  response  ?  {d)  Do  you  think,  that,  were 
Perdita  aware  that  the  King's  son  wished  to  make  her  Queen  of 
Bohemia,  she  would  consent?  Why  ?  (e)  What  will  be  neces- 
sary to  ensure  the  willingness  "that  we  can  guess  must  be  forth- 
coming ?  (/)  Do  any  of  the  guests  overhear  what  they  have 
been  saying  ?  (g)  Where  do  Florizel  and  Perdita  (11.  153,  154) 
now  go  ? 

7  (a)  How  do  we  find  that  Perdita  (11.  156-159  and  159-161) 
has  impressed  the  visitors  from  the  palace  ?  (d)  What  does 
Camillo  mean  (1.  161)  by  'queen  of  curds  and  cream  '  .'*  (c)  Do 
you  imagine  there  is  any  difference  between  the  dancing  of 
Perdita  and  her  lover  and  of  the  rest  ?  (</)  Why  do  you  think 
the  author  introduces  this  dance  ?  (e)  Does  the  shepherd  talk 
(11.  168-176)  of  his  daughter's  lover  and  their  loves  as  you  would 
expect  such  a  man  to  do  ?  Is  there  anything  to  be  explained  ? 
(/)  What  does  the  shepherd,  in  his  last  allusion  (11.  178-180), 
mean  ? 

8  (a)  Why  has  the  servant  (1.  181)  come  to  his  master  about 
the  pedler  ?  (i)  What  of  the  popularity  of  such  ballads  as  are 
now  shown,  and  what  of  the  importance  of  pedlers  like  this  one, 
among  English  country-folk  of  Shakespeare's  day  ?  (c)  What 
is  significant  (1.  215)  in  Perdita's  warning?  (c/)  Is  the  talk  of 
Dorcas  and  Mopsa  (11.  239-243)  better  or  worse  than  might  have 
been  expected  of  shepherd  girls  like  these  ?  Why  is  it  given 
here  ?    (^)  What  point  in  having  Perdita's  brother  upbraid  them  ? 

9  (a)  Why  is  not  Perdita  interested  in  either  the  ballads  or 
the  finery  ?  (d)  Autolycus  is  a  character  supplied  by  Shake- 
speare to  the  borrowed  plot  ;  can  you  see  why  it  was  needed  ? 
(c)  What  do  you  take  it  that  the  shepherd  and  Polyxenes  (11.  316, 
317)  are  in  'sad  talk'  over?  What  is  the  latter  satisfying 
himself  about  ?  (d)  Does  the  dance  of  twelve  Satyrs  serve  any 
other  purpose  than  of  dramatic  embellishment  ?  (^)  How  much 
has  been  thus  far  accomplished  in  this  scene  ? 

2  A 


354  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE?  [IV.  iv 

10  (a)  Why  does  the  diction  change  now  (1.  353)  to  verse? 
(b)  Do  you  find  any  sarcasm  (11.  353-366)  in  the  King's  first 
words  to  his  son.?  What  seemingly  does  he  intend?  (t)  Is 
there  anything  in  Florizel's  answer  that  would  tend  to  incense 
his  father?  {d)  What  similarly  in  his  next  paragraph  but  one? 
(e)  Do  you  think  Camillo's  feeling,  from  what  (1.  389)  he  says, 
the  same  as  the  King's?  (/)  Is  there  anything  to  be  noted 
(11.  390-393)  in  Perdita's  answer? 

11  (fl)  Is  this  (11.  393-396)  a  ceremony  of  any  moment? 
(C/".  p.  248.)  {b)  Does  it  seem  (11.  403-412)  from  the  King's 
ironical  inquiries,  and  (11.  412-414)  Florizel's  reply,  that  the  pres- 
ence of  the  groom's  father  was  imperative  at  the  ceremony  of 
a  precontract?  (c)  Show  how  the  King's  rage  evolves  itself. 
{(i)  Is  he  angered  specifically  by  Perdita?  {e)  Why  does  he 
propose  (1.  435)  to  destroy  her  beauty?  What  does  his  feeling 
show?  (/)  Why  was  it  necessary  for  the  author  to  get  Polyxe- 
nes  so  angry  here?  (g)  To  do  this,  has  he  or  has  he  not  been 
obliged  to  do  violence  to  the  character? 

12  (a)  What  qualities  do  you  find  (11.  451-460)  in  Perdita's 
comments?  {b)  What  should  Florizel,  if  he  does  not  intend 
(1.  456)  to  yield  to  Perdita's  pleading,  do?  Is  he  in  doubt? 
{c)  Do  you  find  any  character  symptoms  in  (11.  460,  461)  what 
Camillo  says  to  the  shepherd?  Does  he  think  the  shepherd  to 
blame?  {d)  Why  does  not  Perdita  reply  (11.  470-472)  to  her 
father?  {e)  Why  does  Perdita  (I.474)  'look  so  upon'  Florizel? 
And  why  does  he  ask,  under  the  circumstances,  the  question  ? 
(/")  Do  you  think  the  author  meant  anything  by  the  name 
Florizel  f 

13  {a)  Why  did  not  Camillo  withdraw  with  the  King? 
{b)  What  starts  Perdita  (1.  484)  again  ?  {c)  How  far  do  you 
consider  Camillo  loyal  to  Polyxenes,  who  confides  in  him  com- 
pletely, at  this  point?  (d)  What  influences  him  most?  {e)  Show 
how  the  disobedience  evolves  a  plan.  (/")  What  need  of  the 
awkward  drawing  (1.  516)  of  Perdita  aside?  {g)  Can  you  ex- 
plain how  Camillo  can  treasonably  aid  the  lovers?  Does  he 
propose  to  keep  the  King  unaware  of  his  conduct? 

14  («)  How  do  you  account  for  Perdita's  confident  answer 
(11.  585-587)  to  Camillo,  who  should  stand  for  the  great  world  to 


IV.  IV]  THE   WINTER'S   TALE  355 

her?  {b)  Why,  at  last  (11.  593,  594),  should  she  blush  at  com- 
pliments from  him?  {c)  Why  again  does  the  author  resort 
(1.  604)  to  drawing  his  actors  aside?  {d)  Why  is  it  necessary 
that  Autolycus  should  tell  (11.  605-630)  what  he  has  been  doing, 
and  at  such  length  ?  {e)  Does  Camillo  really  think  that  letters 
from  Leontes  (1.  634)  shall  satisfy  Polyxenes?  (/")  What 
clothing  does  Florizel  exchange  with  Autolycus? 

15  {a)  What  does  Autolycus  (11.  699,  700)  mean  by  'more 
matter'?  {b)  What  at  last  have  the  shepherd  and  his  son  got 
through  their  heads?  (c)  What  do  they  propose  to  do,  and  from 
what  motive?  {d)  What  are  the  air  and  manner  of  Autolycus  as 
(1.  736)  he  challenges  the  shepherd  and  the  Clown?  {e)  What  is 
he  expecting  to  do?  (/)  Why  does  he  not  send  these  men  on 
to  the  King,  and  win  a  larger  reward  than  he  can  expect  from  the 
Prince?  {g)  Is  it  probable  that  Florizel  wore  a  sword,  that 
Autolycus  now  shows?  {h)  Of  what  use  is  the  exchange  of 
clothing  to  Florizel? 

16  {a)  Why  does  the  author  have  Autolycus  (11.  753-763)  ex- 
ploit his  clothing  and  manners  before  the  shepherds?  {b)  How 
does  he  get  these  men  to  go  with  him?  {c)  Why  should  the 
fellow,  with  court  clothes  on,  wish  (1.  856)  to  '  look  upon '  the 
hedges  as  he  goes  toward  the  wharf?  {d)  What  further  use, 
since  the  festival,  is  Shakespeare  putting  Autolycus  to?  {e)  Re- 
membering his  gifts,  and  his  career  at  court,  do  you  find  the 
character  comprehensible?  (/)  How  closely  does  Perdita  seem 
now  to  belong  to  her  old  friends?     Why? 

17  {a)  What  has  been  accomplished  in  this  scene?  {b)  Why 
did  not  the  author  divide  it  ? 


ACT  V 


SCENE   I 


1  (a)  Do  you  think  it  would  be  or  not  be  an  easy  problem, 
were  you  writing  the  play,  to  introduce  Leontes  again  ?  (d)  Has 
the  author  chosen  an  advantageous  moment  and  situation  ?  Why  ? 
(c)  What  point  in  having  Cleomenes  and  Dion  the  chief  spokes- 
men here?  (</)  How  do  you  find  Leontes  disposed  toward  the 
purpose  they  have  in  mind?  (e)  How  does  Paulina  chance  to 
be  here,  among  the  men,  with  no  companions  of  her  own  sex? 
(/)  What  is  the  effect  of  the  manner  and  matter  (11.  12-16)  of 
her  first  paragraph  ? 

2  (a)  Which  way  go  your  sympathies  in  the  argument  be- 
tween Dion  and  Paulina?  (d)  What  proof  of  the  King's  self- 
discipline  and  contrition  in  (11.  49-54)  his  words  to  Paulina? 
(f)  What  effect  does  the  King's  committing  his  future  to  Paulina's 
keeping  have  on  our  conception  of  his  character?  (</)  Show 
how  the  author  brings  the  King  plausibly  to  such  consent. 
(e)  Would  it  have  done  as  well  to  postpone,  until  (1.  84)  the 
entry  of  the  Prince,  what  has  now  been  done  in  this  scene? 
Why? 

3  (a)  Why  does  the  Gentleman  stop  (11.  86,  87)  to  speak  of 
Perdita  while  giving  the  important  news  ?  (d)  How  has  Florizel's 
idea  of  pranking  her  up  (IV.  iv.  10)  in  court  clothing  assisted, 
materially,  her  entry  at  her  father's  court?  What  sort  of  a  youth 
was  it  necessary  to  make  Florizel,  in  order  to  bring  this  about? 
(c)  Why  should  Paulina  object  (11.  95-103)  to  the  Gentleman's 
enthusiasm?  How  does  he  chance  to  have  celebrated  Hermione 
in  verse?  (d)  Why  is  Paulina  made  to  administer  Job's  comfort 
(11.  1 1 5-1 1 8)  to  the  King?  (e)  Is  it  clear  why  the  King  does 
not  deal  with  her,  in  such  moments,  in  a  tone  of  more  authority? 

4  (a)  What  do  we  now  know  (1.  126)  was  Mamillius's  age  at 
the  opening  of  the  play?     (fi)  What  do  you  say  of  the  King's 

356 


V.  II]  THE   WINTER'S  TALE  357 

impressions  of  Florizel?  (t)  And  what  of  his  impressions  of 
Perdita?  Is  it  her  beauty,  or  her  presence,  her  dignity,  that 
strikes  him?  {d)  Do  you  think  Perdita  has  ever  realised  the 
difference  between  her  own  strength  of  mind  and  Florizel's? 
{e)  Why  does  he  say  (1.  138)  'command,'  —  why  should  not 
'  consent '  have  seemed  a  sufficient  stretching  of  the  truth  ? 
(/")  Why  does  the  author  have  Florizel  tell  so  many  valiant 
falsehoods  concerning  his  'wife'  and  her  family  to  the  King? 
(g)  After  accepting  Perdita  creditably  as  a  princess,  why  is  not 
Leontes  startled  and  scandalised  (11.  180-185)  at  the  amended 
news? 

5  {a)  Can  you  explain  why  Perdita  has  not  shown  sorrow  for 
her  father  (1.  202)  till  now?  {b)  How  can  Florizel  (11.  208,  209) 
palter  in  answer  to  the  very  serious  question  of  the  King? 
(t)  How  is  it  (1.  215)  with  Perdita  now?  {d)  What  makes 
Leontes  so  strangely  complaisant  (11.  223,  224)  toward  a  maid 
of  very  uncertain  origin?  (^)  Is  Paulina  really  afraid  (11.  224- 
227)  that  Leontes  will  forget  his  years?  (/")  Who  must,  of  the 
long  separated  kings,  make  the  advances  now  ? 

SCENE   II 

1  (a)  Why  are  the  reconciliation  and  the  identification  of 
Perdita's  belongings  not  shown?  (<5)  What  of  the  effectiveness 
of  the  means  the  author  uses  in  substitution  for  direct  enactment? 
{c)  Does  Shakespeare  mean  that  ballad-makers  (1.  28)  can  say 
great  meanings  better  than  poets?  What  is  the  truth  concerning 
the  ballad  elements  in  our  literature?  {d)  What  does  the  Third 
Gentleman's  reference  (1.  40)  to  'the  majesty  of  the  creature' 
make  clear  to  us?  (^)  Do  you  think  that  we  have  Shakespeare's 
or  the  Third  Gentleman's  estimate  (1.  106-108)  of  Julio  Romano's 
merits?  (/)  What  word  has  stress  in  (1.  113)  the  first  clause 
of  the  Second  Gentleman's  last  paragraph  ? 

2  (a)  What  means  (11.  135, 136)  'blossoms  of  their  fortune'? 
What  has  been  done  to  them?  (^b)  Do  you  think  Shakespeare 
intends  any  satire  upon  the  pretensions  of  rank  in  certain  of  the 
following  paragraphs?  {c)  What  of  the  Clown's  attempt  to  re- 
form Autolycus?  (d)  In  what  sense  does  Autolycus  insist  upon 
taking  the  Clown's  phrase,  '  tall  fellow  of  thy  hands '?  {e)  What 
has  been  accomplished  in  this  scene? 


358  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE?  [V.  Ill 

SCENE   III 

1  (a)  Has  the  Clown  secured  admittance,  for  Autolycus 
among  his  'kindred,'  to  the  group  who  are  here  to  see  the 
picture?  Is  he  himself  or  his  father  among  the  number? 
(d)  How  does  the  author  manage,  at  the  outset,  to  make  us 
understand  that  Leontes  has  not  entered  Paulina's  house  before? 

(c)  Why  was  it  well  and  necessary  to  do  this?  (tt)  What  do 
you  say  of  the  strength  and  speed  by  which  this  scene  proceeds 
to  its  main  business  ?  (e)  What  do  you  say  of  the  dramatic  effect 
of  the  silence  (1.  20),  after  the  curtain  is  drawn,  and  of  Paulina's 
calling  attention  to  this  effect  of  what  is  seen  ? 

2  (a)  What  feelings  do  you  find  (11.  23-29)  in  Leontes  now  ? 

(d)  What  do  you  say  (11.  42-46)  of  Perdita's  responsiveness? 
Why  should  she  venture,  with  such  people  in  such  a  place,  to 
be  so  demonstrative?  (c)  Why  does  not  Paulina  allow  her  to 
kiss  her  mother's  hand?  (d)  Why  does  Camillo  (1.  49)  speak 
of  '  sorrow '  here  ?  (e)  What  is  Polyxenes'  attitude  or  action  in 
the  next  paragraph?  (/)  Is  Paulina  surprised  (11.  56-59)  at  the 
effect  of  her  device?    Why  should  she  be? 

3  (a)  Do  you  think  Hermione  moves  of  purpose,  or  be- 
cause she  cannot  control  her  agitation  at  her  husband's  tears? 
(d)  What  is  the  effect  upon  Leontes?  (c)  Do  you  conclude 
from  his  question  (1.  63)  that  he  suspects?  (d)  Does  Polyxenes 
(11.  65,  66)  see  what  he  sees?  (e)  Why  does  Leontes  say  (1.  71) 
'  twenty  years '  ?  (/)  Do  you  think  the  rest  of  the  company 
(11.  74-80)  now  share  Leontes'  and  Paulina's  understanding,  or 
how  nearly  have  they  reached  it? 

4  (a)  Why  does  not  (11.  84,  85)  Perdita  yet  divine  the  situa- 
tion? (d)  What  was  the  feeling  of  the  times  concerning  witch- 
craft? (c)  What  was  the  belief  of  James  I  touching  such 
matters?  (d)  By  the  way,  does  there  seem  to  be  any  possible 
suggestion  of  James  I  in  the  character  of  this  Leontes?  (e)  Why 
should  the  King  forbid  (11.  97,  98)  conscientious  scruples  and 
obedience  to  them? 

5  (a)  What  of  the  dramatic  interest  (1.  98)  of  this  moment, 
as  the  music  is  played  softly?  (d)  Why  does  Hermione  hesitate 
to  descend?     How  long  seemingly  is  the  delay?     (t)  What  ap- 


I 


V.  Ill]  THE   WINTER'S   TALE  359 

pears  (1.  104)  to  have  been  the  effect  of  her  first  movements? 
{d)  To  whom  is  'start  not'  said,  and  to  whom  'do  not  shun'? 
(e)  What  pause  do  the  words  of  Paulina  cover?  (/)  Which 
moves  toward  the  other? 

6  {a)  What  is  evident  (1.  in)  as  to  Hermione's  feeling? 
{b)  Why  does  not  the  author  have  her  speak  at  once  ?  {c)  Show 
how  Paulina's  presence  is  made  useful  in  these  situations,  {d)  Do 
you  think  Perdita  kneels  (].  119)  a  second  time?  Why  is  it  neces- 
sary that  Hermione  be  asked  to  turn  and  regard  her?  (<?)  Has  or 
has  not  Hermione  known  till  now  that  Perdita  is  found? 

7  {a)  What  do  you  say  of  Hermione's  language  to  her  daugh- 
ter? Is  it  wanting  in  dignity  and  grace?  (b)  What  do  you 
imagine  is  Hermione's  expression  and  pose  as  she  says  this? 
{c)  Where  is  the  climax  of  this  scene?  {d)  Is  it  natural  that 
Paulina  should  call  attention  (11.  130-135)  to  her  lone  condition? 
{e)  What  need  for  the  comedial  touch  of  matching  her  with 
Camillo?  (/")  How  is  the  author  managing  the  descent  from  his 
climax  ? 

8  («)  What  prompts  from  Leontes  his  pleading  (I.  147) 
'look  upon  my  brother'?  (b)  Why  has  Florizel  (11.  149-151) 
been  left  unrecognised  till  now  ?  (c)  Why  is  Paulina  made  to 
'lead'  the  company  away?  {d)  Where  is  Camillo's  place  in 
it  ?  {e)  What  are  your  impressions  concerning  this  close  of  the 
scene  and  of  the  play  ? 

9  {a)  Do  you  think  that  Hermione  understood  what  the  part 
she  was  asked  to  play  would  involve?  {b^  Is  this  play  a  tragedy 
or  a  comedy?  Why?  (c)  Who  are  the  enabling  characters  in 
it?  (</)  What  new  ideas  of  strength  in  helplessness,  and  of  the 
influences  of  a  righteous  will,  have  been  brought  home  to  you? 
{e)  On  what  principles  is  this  play  based?  (/")  What  seem  to 
you  to  be  the  ultimate  meanings,  or  lessons,  in  it  ? 


II 

ROMEO  AND   JULIET 
ACT  I 

SCENE   I 

1  (a)  What  word  in  the  first  line  has  stress?  (d)  What  is 
the  real  business  of  these  men  ?  (c)  How  does  the  author  ap- 
prize us  dramatically  which  house  they  serve  ?  (ti)  How  does 
he  show  their  antipathy  toward  the  rival  family  ?  (e)  Do  you 
think,  or  not  think,  that  he  intends  (II.  9  and  39,  40)  to  differen- 
tiate the  two  men  in  point  of  bravery  ? 

2  (a)  Why  should  it  be  assumed  (1.  45)  that  either  side 
should  '  begin '  ?  (d)  How  can  Sampson  (1.  48)  bite  his  thumb 
'at'  the  approaching  ruffians  ?  (c)  How  does  it  help  (1.  57)  to 
deny  what  he  has  done  ?  (d)  What  are  the  final  steps  in  the 
evolution  of  the  quarrel  ?  (e)  Why  should  the  coming  (1.  65) 
of  one  of  Montague's  kinsmen  alter  the  case  in  the  way  it  does  ? 
(/)  Would  it  have  affected  an  Englishman  in  the  same  way  ? 
What  race  differences  are  apparent  here  ? 

3  (a)  What,  up  to  the  present  point,  seems  the  object  of 
this  scene  ?  (d)  What  do  you  know  at  once,  from  his  attempt 
(1.  72)  to  part  the  fighters,  is  the  nature  of  Benvolio  ?  (c)  How 
does  Tybalt  express  himself  (1.  73)  in  //iou  ?  (d)  What  kind 
of  a  man  does  he  register  himself,  in  his  actions  here,  to  be  ? 
(^)  Which  house  thus  far  seems  superior  ?  Do  the  citizens 
(1.  81)  seem  to  discriminate  ? 

4  {a)  How  does  Capulet  chance  (1.  81)  to  be  in  his  gown, 
and  svvordless  ?  {F)  Whom  does  he  command  (11.  82)  to 
fetch  his  sword  ?  (c)  Why  does  Lady  Capulet,  in  a  moment  of 
such  excitement,  call  (1.  83)  for  a  'crutch'?  (d)  Why  does 
Lady  Montague  (1.  87)  hold  back  her  husband?     {e)  Do  you 

360 


I.  II]  ROMEO   AND   JULIET  361 

judge  from  the  Prince's  rebuke  (11.  89-93)  that  blood  has  been 
shed  already  ?  (/")  Do  you  take  it  that  this  is  one  (1.  96)  of 
the  three  brawls,  or  were  they  something  worse  ? 

5  (a)  What  do  you  say  of  the  language  used  by  the  Prince 
in  dealing  with  the  offenders  ?  Is  the  stilted,  sophomoric  quality 
intended  to  characterise  the  Prince,  or  is  it  due  to  the  author's 
faults  of  style  ?  (d)  Is  this  Prince  an  old  man  ?  (c)  What 
is  the  use  of  showing,  at  such  pains,  the  savagery  of  an  Italian 
street  fight  ?  (d)  What  need  of  marks  of  the  Italian  nature 
observed  in  it?  (e)  How  differently  would  English  offenders 
against  the  peace  and  an  English  magistrate  have  behaved  ? 

6  (a)  What  is  clear  (11.  125-132)  as  to  Romeo's  and  Ben- 
volio's  habits  and  disposition  ?  Are  they  dissipated,  roystering 
young  men  ?  (d)  What  are  your  impressions  (11.  137-148,  152- 
161)  of  Montague  ?     Is  he  a  coarse  man  ?     Does  he  ever  read  ? 

(c)  Do  you  judge  Romeo  (11.  137-146)  like  him  ?  (d)  Do  you 
find,  or  not  find,  marks  of  effeminacy  in  either  ?  (e)  If  these 
were  Englishmen,  what  different  conclusions  of  character  would 
you  form  ? 

7  (a)  Do  you  understand  that  Romeo  (1.  166)  is  not  aware 
of  the  time  of  day,  or  that  he  has  just  seen  (1.  168)  his  father  ? 
What  is  the  author  trying  to  tell  us  by  these  means  ?  (d)  What 
further  hints  and  signs  (11.  177-189)  in  Romeo's  first  long  para- 
graph ?      (c)    Does    this    man    seem    really   in    love  ?      Why  ? 

(d)  Why  should  he  assume  (11.  214-220)  that  his  lady-love 
cannot  be  won  ?  (e)  Do  you  think  him  unadvised  concerning 
women  ?  (/)  Do  you  think  him  diffident,  unused  to  best 
Verona  society  ?  (g)  Can  you  explain  why  this  young  man, 
exquisitely  endowed,  and  with  every  privilege,  finds  life  so  heavy  ? 
(/i)  Is  there  anything  typically  Itahan  in  the  case? 

SCENE   II 

I  (a)  What  does  Paris  seem  to  have  been  saying  that  Capulet 
now  answers  by  '  but '  ?  (^d)  Why  should  Capulet  accept,  as  he 
does  (1.  3)  personally,  the  responsibility  for  disturbances  arising, 
like  the  last  one,  without  his  knowledge  or  consent  ?  (c)  What  of 
Paris's  interest  in  the  feud,  as  shown  (1.  6)  by  *  now '?  (d)  What 
does  Capulet  mean  (1.  8)  by  'a  stranger  in  the  world'?     (e)  Do 


362  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE?  [I.  Il 

you  think  Paris  wholly  acceptable  to  Capulet  ?    (/)  What  seems 
to  be  lacking  in  him  as  a  lover? 

2  (a)  How  is  Capulet  different,  in  modes  of  thought  and 
speech,  from  Montague?  Which  is  more  matter-of-fact  and 
native,  which  has  achieved  more  refinement?  (b)  What  do  you 
say  of  the  author's  means  of  getting  rid  of  Paris  and  Capulet  ? 
{c)  How  should  Capulet  have  given  the  list  to  a  servant  who 
cannot  read?  And  why  should  not  the  servant  confess  himself 
unequal  to  the  commission?  {d)  How  is  the  new  conversation 
of  Benvolio  and  Romeo  related  to  their  last  dialogue?  Have 
they  separated  since?  {e)  Which  was  before  subordinated  to 
the  other?     (/)  Which  is  subordinated  now? 

3  (a)  How  does  Romeo  chance  (1.  58)  to  address  the  servant? 
(b)  Was  he  bound  by  customs  of  the  time  to  notice  him  ?  What 
would  Tybalt  probably,  in  Romeo's  place,  have  done?  {c)  How 
does  it  happen  that  it  is  Romeo  and  not  Benvolio  who  helps  the 
servant?  i^d)  Why  does  not  Romeo  at  once  (11.  60,  64)  assist 
the  fellow?  {e)  Are  we  to  infer  anything  from  the  fact  that 
Paris's  name  is  not  included  in  the  list? 

4  (a)  Why  is  the  servant  now  (11.  76,  78,  80)  so  evasive  to 
the  gentleman  who  has  befriended  him?  (^b)  Why  does  he  invite 
Romeo  (11.  84,  85)  after  all?  {c)  Is  it  plausible  that  he  should 
not  know  whom  he  is  talking  with  ?  (d)  When  and  how  does 
Benvolio  seem  to  have  learned  (1.  88)  who  is  Romeo's  flame? 
(^)  How  was  it  possible  for  Romeo  to  think  of  entering  the  home 
of  his  father's  foe?  (/")  What  is  his  motive  for  so  doing? 
{g)  What  is  the  object  of  this  scene? 


SCENE   III 

I  (fl)  Why  does  the  author  make  Juliet  enter  to  her  mother 
and  the  Nurse  instead  of  discovering  her  to  us  with  them  ? 
{b)  Why  should  not  Juliet  have  appeared  (1.  3)  at  the  first  call? 
(t)  Why  should  not  the  mother,  instead  of  the  Nurse,  answer  (1.  6) 
her  first  inquiry?  {d)  What  makes  Lady  Capulet  dismiss  and 
recall  the  Nurse?  (1?)  Can  you  explain  Juliet's  reticence  and  dis- 
tantness?  Why  should  she  not  have  been  here  with  her  mother 
and  the  Nurse  all  the  while  ? 


I.  v]  ROMEO   AND   JULIET  363 

2  (a)  How  is  it  that  the  Nurse  can  forestall  the  intended  con- 
versation with  such  matters  as  she  tells?  (d)  What  kind  of  a 
woman  do  you  see  she  is  ?  (c)  How  far  were  social  conditions 
different  in  Italy,  with  reference  (1.  61)  to  the  Nurse's  wish,  from 
now  with  us?  (d)  Can  you  explain  why  Juliet  does  not  speak? 
(<f)  What  subordination  is  apparent  after  (1.  65)  the  mother's 
question? 

3  (a)  Do  you  think  Juliet's  response  (1.66)  sincere?  (i5)  How 
does  Lady  Capulet's  argument  (11.  69-73)  strike  you?  Do  you 
think  such  effect  intended?  (c)  Were  the  older  children  spoken 
of  (ii.  14)  by  Capulet,  hers?  (d)  How  much  older  than  she 
seems  Capulet?  (e)  Was  it  usual  for  Italian  mothers,  intending 
marriages,  to  ask  such  questions  as  the  one  (1.  79)  now  ventured  ? 
(_/")  Why,  in  Lady  Capulet's  paragraph,  the  rhymed  lines? 
(g)  What  do  you  find  more,  in  Juliet's  response,  dutifulness  or 
inclination?  (//)  With  such  a  mother,  and  such  a  Nurse,  what 
was  to  be  expected? 

SCENE    IV 

1  (a)  In  the  stage  direction  Mercutio  has  displaced  Benvolio, 
standing  next  the  hero.  What  do  you  infer  from  this?  (d)  Who 
of  the  newcomers  here,  according  (ii.  67-74)  to  the  list,  may 
have  been  invited?  (c)  Does  Romeo  seem  the  same  as  before? 
{d)  Which  is  nearer  his  mind  and  temperament,  Benvolio  or 
Mercutio?  (^)  What,  up  to  1.  53,  are  your  impressions  of  this 
company  ? 

2  (a)  What  do  you  say  of  the  following  paragraph  of  Mer- 
cutio, as  part  of  the  running  conversation?  (d)  What  impres- 
sions, as  respects  Mercutio,  does  it  make  upon  you?  (c)  Do  you 
find  Romeo  subordinated  by  it  to  Mercutio?  (d)  Is  Benvolio 
shown  here,  in  your  judgment,  at  the  true  level  of  his  mind? 
(e)  What  conception  of  Romeo  comes  to  you  from  his  last  para- 
graph?    (/")  What  seems  to  be  the  purpose  of  this  scene? 

SCENE  V 

I  (a)  What  is  the  effect  of  the  stress  on  W/iere'^s,  in  the  first 
line?  {b)  What  is  the  entertainment  to  which  Capulet's  guests 
are  bidden?     (t)  Why  this  opening  talk  and  bustle  between  the 


364  WHAT   IS    SHAKESPEARE  ?  [I.  v 

servants  given?  {d)  What  Guests  and  Maskers  (1.  17)  do  Capulet 
and  his  daughter  'meet'?  (e)  What  are  your  impressions  of 
Capulet  here  as  a  host?  (/)  What  seems  un-English  in  the 
talk  and  manners  of  the  man  ? 

2  (a)  Why  is  Lady  Capulet  not  mentioned?  (d)  What  does 
Romeo  mean  by  (1.  47)  'hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night'? 
(c)  What  in  Juliet  that  we  have  seen  impresses  him?  (d)  Do 
you  understand  Romeo  now?  (e)  Do  you  suppose  that  Tybalt 
(1.  56)  recognises  only  the  voice  of  ftomeo,  and  not  his  meaning? 
(/)  Can  you  explain  why  Capulet  (1.  67)  is  not  incensed  at 
Romeo? 

3  (a)  Is  the  report  of  Romeo  (1.  70)  in  Verona  likely  to  be 
correct?  (l>)  How  do  you  explain  Capulet's  readiness  to  echo 
such  things  of  an  enemy?  (c)  How  is  it  to  be  explained  (1.  78) 
that  Tybalt  insists?  (d)  What  word  in  1.  81  has  stress? 
(e)  What  point  in  having  Tybalt  thus  assume  the  enmity  of  the 
family  toward  Romeo?  (/)  What  point  in  having  Tybalt 
withdraw  from  the  house  in  anger?  (g)  Does  Paris  seem  to 
have  made  use  of  his  invitation?    Why? 

4  (a)  What  point  in  having  the  foregoing  occur  before  we 
hear  Romeo's  words  to  Juliet?  (d)  How  do  you  like  his  manner 
of  addressing  her?  Is  there  any  character  in  it,  or  only  gallantry  ? 
(c)  Does  it  seem  that  Juliet  understands  the  voice,  the  words,  the 
worship,  as  we  understand  them  ?  (d)  Why  does  Juliet  say  (1. 99) 
'pilgrim'  and  (1.  102)  'palmer'?  Is  Romeo's  mask  perhaps 
of  such  a  sort?  What  kind  of  a  mask  (iv.  32)  is  Mercutio  wear- 
ing? (e)  What  is  the  'shrine'  (1.  96)  that  Romeo  professes  to 
profane?  (/)  Why  should  Juliet  deprecate  the  proposed  kiss 
upon  her  hand,  a  common  courtesy  of  the  time  ? 

5  (a)  How  far  do  you  think  Juliet  intends  to  invite  (1.  107) 
what  follows  ?  (d)  What  do  you  say  of  Romeo's  diffidence,  or 
far-off  worship,  that  he  seemed  to  feel  toward  Rosaline  ?  (c)  Is 
it  probable  that  Rosaline  discerned  Romeo  ?  (d)  Why  does  the 
Nurse  address  Romeo  (1.  114)  as  'bachelor'?  (e)  Why  does 
she  say,  thus,  to  a  stranger  (11.  118,  119),  that  Juliet  shall  inherit 
wealth  ? 

6  (a)  Why  does  Romeo  feel  and  say  (1.  120)  that  his  life  is 
his  foe's  debt  ?    Why  does  he  not  propose  to  drop  Juliet  forth- 


I.  v]    '  ROMEO  AND   JULIET  365 

with  from  his  thought  ?  {b)  What  prompts  the  remark  (1.  121) 
of  Benvolio  ?  {c)  For  whom  was  (1.  124)  the  'trifling,  fooHsh 
banquet'  intended  ?  {d)  To  what  does  Capulet  (1.  125)  respond 
by  asking,  '  Is  it  e'en  so '  ?  {e)  Why  does  not  Juliet  ask  directly 
(1.  134)  who  the  stranger  is  ?  (/)  Why  should  she  recognise 
the  possibility  of  his  being  a  married  man,  since  he  has  not 
behaved  like  one  ? 

7  (a)  Why  does  the  Nurse  (1.  139)  say  'your'  instead  of 
'our'?  {b)  What  means  (1.  140)  'only  hate'?  {c)  How 
does  this  help  the  meaning  of  '  only  love '  ?  (</)  What  means 
(1.  142)  'prodigious  birth'?  {e)  How  can  one  who  has  never 
been  known  personally,  or  been  even  seen  before,  be  a  '  loathed 
enemy'?  (/)  Why  is  Juliet's  fibbing  answer  (1.  144)  made 
known  to  us?  (^)  What  has  been  accomplished  in  this  scene? 
(/i)  Why  is  the  First  Act  brought  to  its  conclusion  here? 


ACT  II 


SCENE   I 


1  {a)  Does  the  Chorus  prefixed  to  this  act  seem  to  hasten  or 
retard  the  events  anticipated  ?  {b)  Where  are  the  *  five  or  six 
Maskers,'  who  accompanied  Romeo  and  his  friends  hither? 
(f)  How  has  Romeo  managed  to  be  apart  from  Mercutio  and 
Benvolio?  {d)  Why  has  he  not  told  them  of  his  new  passion, 
and  dismissed  them?  {e)  Does  he  seem  like  an  unpractical, 
irresolute  dreamer,  as  at  the  beginning  of  the  play?  (/)  De- 
velop fully  the  author's  evident  meaning  here. 

2  {a)  Is  it  to  be  taken  as  characteristic  of  Benvolio  that  it 
(1.  5)  comes  over  him  where  Romeo  is?  (b)  What  is  the  effect 
on  us  of  Mercutio  proposing  and  attempting  (1.  6)  to  'conjure' 
toof  Why  cannot  he  take  his  friend  more  seriously?  {c)  Why 
does  not  this  closing  of  Romeo's  intimacy  with  his  friends  belong 
to  the  First  Act?  {d)  Is  there  any  subordination,  in  this  situ- 
ation, of  them  to  him  or  him  to  them?  {e)  How  is  Benvolio 
contrasted  with  Mercutio  here? 

SCENE   II 

1  {a)  What  has  been  Romeo's  impulse  or  aim  in  scaling  the 
enclosure  of  the  hated  Capulets?  {b)  How  different  would  be 
the  behaviour  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  Romeo?  {c)  How  does  Juliet 
chance  to  appear  at  the  very  window  he  approaches?  {d)  What 
do  you  say  of  Romeo's  soliloquy?  What  qualities  of  mind  and 
spirit  are  palpably  in  evidence?  {e)  How  does  he  become  surer 
(1.  10)  that  it  is  Juliet  who  has  appeared?  (/")  What  is  signified 
and  measured  to  us  in  the  long  silence  before  she  sighs? 

2  {a)  Does  Romeo  say  his  second  paragraph  aloud  ? 
{b)  What  is  the  burden  of  the  words  (11.  33-36)  that  we  now 
hear  Juliet  say?  {c)  Does  or  does  not  Romeo,  hearing  his 
name, understand  fully  what  she  has  said?  {d)  What  discovery 
(11.  38,  39)  is  Juliet  making?  {e)  What  is  the  sense  (1.  48)  of 
'for'?  What  word  in  the  line  has  stress?  (/)  Does  Romeo, 
in  his  answer  (11.  49-51),  seem  to  understand  her  disniay? 

366 


II.  II]  ROMEO   AND   JULIET  367 

3  (a)  Does  Juliet  recognise  (II.  52,  53),  apparently,  who  has 
addressed  her?  (d)  What  do  you  say  of  (11.  53-57)  Romeo's 
response?  (c)  In  what  mood,  with  what  feeling,  does  she  utter 
the  first  two  lines  of  her  response?  (d)  In  what  mood,  with 
what  feeling,  does  she  say  (1.  60)  the  last  sentence  in  it  ? 
(e)  What  different  shape  does  Juliet's  dismay  (11.  62-65)  ^^w 
take?  (/)  Masculine  minds  are  supposed  to  be  matter-of-fact 
and  practical,  feminine  minds  imaginative.  Does  the  dialogue 
now  beginning  illustrate?     Explain. 

4  (a)  What  marvel  (1.  79)  is  in  Juliet's  mind?    Is  it  natural? 

(b)  While  Juliet  is  asking  these  matter-of-fact  questions,  what  is 
going  on  in  her  mind  besides  and  chiefly?  Do  you  think  she 
appreciates    Romeo's   answer    (11.  80-84)  to  her  last  question? 

(c)  Do  you  think  she  has  grounds,  as  she  understands  them,  in 
her  consciousness,  for  what  (11.  85-106)  she  now  says?  Or  does 
she  do  all  recklessly,  from  the  fascinating  wish  to  keep  this 
earliest  lover  ?  (d)  Do  you  find  her  shallow,  silly  in  her 
philosophy,  or  the  reverse?  Why?  (<?)  What  other  qualities 
are  to  be  discerned  in  the  things  she  says? 

5  (a)  What  feeling  is  shown  and  emphasised  (1.  100)  in 
'gentleman'?  (d)  What  makes  Romeo  similarly  address  Juliet 
(1.  107)  by  'lady  '  ?  (c)  What  do  you  think  would  be  the  effect 
of  such  confidence  upon  an  unworthy  nature?  (d)  Why  does 
not  Juliet  recognise  the  efforts  that  Romeo  makes  to  assure  her? 
Why  has  she  no  anxiety  at  all?  (e)  What  feeling  (11.  116-124) 
now  asserts  itself?  (/)  Why  is  Romeo  (1.  125)  so  far  from 
sharing  the  same  feeling? 

6  (a)  How  fully  is   Juliet  (1.   130)  understood  by  Romeo? 

(d)  What  do  you  say  of  her  answer  to  this  last  question?  Is  it 
maidenly,  or  overbold  ?  (c)  Do  you  think  Juliet  has  begun  to 
realise,  as  yet,  that  Romeo  must  not  seek  another  interview  of 
this  kind?  (d)  Why  does  the  author  have  the  Nurse  call  Juliet 
away?  (e)  How  do  you  think  Juliet  says  (1.  137)  '■sweet  Mon- 
tague'? (/)  What  do  you  find  in  the  circumstance  of  her 
taking  leave  of  him  with  these  words? 

7  (a)  How  much  do  you  think  Romeo  appreciates  of  all  this? 
{b)  What  has  come  into  Juliet's  mind  (11.  142-148)  since  she 
said   (1.    120)    'good   night'?      {c)    Why   is   the   Nurse    made 


368  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE?  [H.  ii 

(1.  149)  to  call  Juliet  again?  (^)  What  do  you  find  stronger 
(1. 150)  in  Juliet,  her  caution  or  her  faith  ?  {e)  Why  has  not  Romeo 
said  anything  as  to  a  practical  outcome  of  their  attachment? 
Does  he  not  realise  the  situation?  (/)  Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  credible 
that  a  girl  of  fourteen,  who  has  never  acted  for  herself,  should  be 
equal  to  such  an  exigency?  {g)  How  would  an  Anglo-Saxon 
Juliet  have  done? 

8  (fl)  Why  should  not  Romeo  expect  (11.  156-158)  and  be 
ready,  after  such  felicity,  to  withdraw?  {b)  How  differently 
would  an  Anglo-Saxon  Romeo  behave?  {c)  How  does  Juliet 
now  (1.  159)  call  Romeo,  and  what  is  the  need  of  doing  it  in 
such  a  way?  {d)  What  is  the  quality,  now  (11.  159-164),  of 
Juliet's  ideas  and  language?  {e)  Why  does  Juliet  call  her  lover 
again  (1.  168)  by  name,  after  he  is  returned  and  waiting? 
if)  Why  has  she  called  him  back?  And  why  (1.  171)  has  she 
forgotten  ? 

9  {a)  Where  has  this  scene  its  climax?  {b)  What  has  been 
accomplished  in  it?  {c)  Which  of  the  twain  must  withdraw  and 
close  the  scene?  {d)  What  instincts  and  motives  bring  this 
about?  {e)  Does  Romeo  keep,  in  the  concluding  conversation, 
to  his  imaginative  heights  ?  (/)  Does  Juliet  keep  to  her  practical, 
matter-of-fact  level?     {g)  How  do  you  explain? 

SCENE   III 

1  {a)  Why  does  the  author  make  Friar  Laurence  tell  (1.  i) 
the  time  of  the  scene?  {b)  Why  is  the  scene  in  rhyme?  {c)  Of 
what  rank,  in  the  society  of  the  time,  has  the  Friar  come? 
{d)  What  impressions  of  the  man,  and  of  his  mind,  do  you  form 
from  the  opening  paragraph  ?  {e)  Do  you,  or  do  you  not,  judge, 
from  (11.  31-42)  the  Friar's  greeting,  that  he  knows  Romeo  well 
and  is  fond  of  him?     Show  what  is  involved  in  this. 

2  {a)  Does  Romeo's  explanation  (11.  49-54),  or  the  manner 
of  it,  argue  especial  qualities  in  the  hero's  mind,  and  if  such,  what? 
{b)  What  is  the  effect  of  the  Friar's  scolding  (11.  65-80)  upon 
us?  {c)  Has  Romeo  deserved  it?  {d)  What  does  the  Friar 
mean  (1.  90)  by  one  respect?  {e)  If  the  houses  are  reconciled, 
will  it,  or  will  it  not,  profit  the  Friar  or  his  chapter?  (/)  Was 
there,  or  was  there  not,  rivalry  between  the  Franciscan  and  the 
Benedictine  orders  in  his  day? 


II.  V]  ROMEO   AND   JULIET  369 

SCENE   IV 

1  (a)  What  is  the  time  of  this  scene?  (d)  Where  do  you 
think  Romeo  will  keep  himself  while  he  awaits  Juliet's  messenger? 
(c)  What  is  Mercutio's  implication  (1.  10)  respecting  the  chal- 
lenge? (d)  Why  should  Benvolio  (1.  11)  have  a  different  con- 
viction?    (e)  Which  character  is  subordinated  here,  and  how? 

2  (a)  How  far  does  Romeo  seem  the  same,  with  his  two 
friends,  as  when  they  were  last  together?  (l>)  What  subordi- 
nation, in  the  new  situation,  is  brought  about,  and  how  ?  (c)  Does 
Romeo  recognise  (1.  107)  who  are  approaching  ?  (//)  Why 
has  Peter  accompanied  the  Nurse?  (e)  Why  should  the  Nurse, 
before  accosting  the  object  of  her  search,  ask  for  her  fan?  What 
is  she,  like  some  younger  Italian  women,  probably  wearing  (cf. 
Havilei,  II.  445-447)  to  increase  her  height  ? 

3  {a)  Why  has  the  author  made  Mercutio  talk  coarsely,  and 
Romeo  (11.  121,  122)  rebuke  his  friend?  {b)  Can  you  explain 
why  the  Nurse,  in  (1.  124)  inquiring  for  Romeo,  addresses,  after 
what  has  just  happened,  all  three?  {c)  What  do  Benvolio 
and  Mercutio  infer  is  the  Nurse's  message,  and  from  whom? 
(^/)  What  is  the  effect  of  Mercutio's  conduct  on  our  feelings 
toward  him,  and  toward  Romeo?  {e)  What  do  you  say  of  the 
Nurse's  plea  (11.  1 72-1 81)  for  her  mistress?  Is  she  truly  anxious? 
(_/")  What  more  remarkable  manifestation  of  her  intelligence  and 
character  follows?  (_^)  Why  has  the  author  introduced  these 
lines? 

4  {a)  How  is  it  that  Romeo  assumes  (1.  192)  that  Juliet  will 
come  for  shrift  to  Friar  Laurence  rather  than  elsewhere? 
{b)  Why  does  the  Nurse  refuse  (1.  194),  and  then  accept  (1.  197), 
Romeo's  coin?  What  is  the  position  of  the  Nurse  in  the  Capulet 
household?  {c)  Does  the  Nurse  seem  to  interest  Romeo  (11. 
213-219)  by  what  she  says  of  Paris?  (r/)  Why  is  the  Nurse's 
ignorance  of  the  alphabet  brought  out?  {e)  Why  does  she 
make  Peter  (1.  232)  go  before? 

SCENE  V 

I    («)  What  can  have  caused  this  three  hours'  delay  ?    {U)  Why 
is  Juliet  waiting  in  the  'orchard'?      (c)    Why  is  this  opening 
2  B 


370  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [II.  v 

paragraph  given?  {d)  What  is  Juliet's  natural  inference  from 
the  unreadiness  of  the  Nurse  to  answer  anything?  {e)  Why  is 
she  unready  and  evasive?  (/)  What  does  the  author  bring  out 
by  this  means  ? 

2  (a)  How  do  you  account  for  the  Nurse's  absurd  talk  (11.  38- 
45)  about  Romeo?  {b)  Why  does  she  break  off  (11.  58,  59)  and 
ask,  'Where's  your  mother '?  {c)  Whose  leave  (1.  69)  has  Juliet 
been  obliged  to  get,  and  why?  (d)  Why  does  the  Nurse  persist 
in  withholding  (1.  71)  the  details  that  Juliet  so  desires  to  know? 
{e)  What  do  you  say  (1.  72)  of  the  effect  of  the  Nurse's  words? 
(/)  What  of  the  spirit  that  she  shows  in  this  last  paragraph? 
Ig)  Why  did  not  Shakespeare  have  the  lovers  arrange,  in  the 
second  scene,  for  their  meeting  at  Friar  Laurence's  cell,  and  save 
the  scenes  between? 

SCENE   VI 

1  {a)  Why  is  it  well  to  have  Friar  Laurence  have  and  express 
misgivings  over  the  proposed  union?  {b)  Why  has  the  author 
made  Juliet  enter  to  Romeo  and  the  friar?  {c)  Show  how  he 
helps  Juliet,  in  the  sentences  she  is  made  to  utter,  in  this  hard 
situation,  {d)  What  does  the  friar  mean  by  his  answer  (1.  22) 
to  her  greeting? 

2  {a)  Why  is  Romeo,  in  his  two  paragraphs,  made  to  express 
so  much  affection?  {b)  Would  it  not  have  been  better  had  Juliet 
expressed  less?  (c)  Where  does  the  friar  (1.  35)  conduct  the 
lovers?  (d)  Why  does  Shakespeare  not  show  the  marriage 
ceremony?  (^)  What  need  of  presenting  the  lovers  together  in 
the  friar's  cell  ? 


ACT  III 


SCENE   I 


1  (a)  Show  how  Benvolio  is  in  character  here,  (d)  Do  you 
think  Mercutio  has  or  has  not  reason  for  implying  that  it  is  Ben- 
volio and  not  himself  who  is  inclined  to  quarrels?  Why  is  he 
made  to  talk  so?  (c)  Do  you  think  Benvolio  or  Mercutio  more 
critical?  (d)  What  is  now  the  time  of  day?  (e)  Has  Romeo 
yet  seen  Tybalt's  challenge?     Why? 

2  (a)  To  whom  does  Tybalt  say  (1.  40),  'Follow  me  close,' 
and  why?  (d)  Has  Mercutio  any  especial  reason  for  trying  to 
provoke  Tybalt?  (c)  Why  is  Benvolio  concerned  that  (1.  56) 
'all  eyes  gaze'  on  them?  (d)  What  proof  (1.  59)  of  Tybalt's 
anxiety  to  see  Romeo?  (1?)  What  race  differences  made  apparent 
here? 

3  (a)  What  does  Tybalt  expect  will  be  the  effect  (11.  63,  64) 
of  his  words  on  Romeo?  (i>)  Were  it  not  for  Romeo's  new  love 
for  the  Capulets,  would  or  would  not  Tybalt  have  been  disap- 
pointed? (c)  If  this  were  an  Anglo-Saxon  Romeo,  would  the 
answer  to  Tybalt  be  altered  from  (11.  65-68)  what  we  find? 
(d)  What  is  the  point  of  Tybalt's  insolence  (1.  69)  in  'boy'? 
Which  is  the  older  of  these  two?  (e)  What  feelings  apparent 
(11.  71-75)  in  Romeo's  rejoinder?  (/)  What  do  you  say  of  this 
paragraph?  How  far  is  it  the  utterance  of  the  lover  rather  than 
of  the  gentleman  ? 

4  (a)  How  do  you  think  Mercutio  interprets  Romeo's  answers 
and  forbearance?  {d)  How  is  Tybalt  minded  to  fight  Mercutio 
now  (1.  86),  having  declined  before?  (c)  Why  is  Romeo  still 
(1.  87)  so  unaroused  and  gentle?  And  why  is  not  Benvolio's 
voice  also  heard  in  protest?  (d)  How  is  it  that  Romeo  is  now 
(11.  89-93)  so  loud  and  potent?  (e)  Why  does  he  say  'Hold 
Tybalt !  good  Mercutio '  ? 

5  (a)  Why  does  Tybalt  disappear  so  suddenly?  (d)  Why 
does  not  this  party  think  of  flight  ?     (tr)  Where  do  you  think  the 

371 


372  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [III.  I 

stress  in  Benvolio's  question  (1.  95)  falls?  Has  Benvolio  helped 
Romeo  beat  down  their  swords?  (d)  What  do  you  say  of  this 
mortal  hurt  of  Mercutio's ?  Is  it  due  to  an  ordinary  thrust? 
What  was  the  spirit  of  the  man  who  made  it  ?  (e)  Why  does 
not  Mercutio  tell  Romeo  (11.  107, 108)  sooner,  and  more  petulantly, 
how  the  hit  was  made? 

6  (a)  What  do  you  say(l.  109)  of  Romeo's  answer?  (d)  Why 
is  it  Benvolio,  and  not  Romeo,  who  is  asked  to  help?  (c)  How 
far  do  you  find  your  sympathy  aroused  for  Mercutio?  (^)  Why 
is  Romeo  made  (11.  1 14-120)  to  remark  in  a  soliloquy  about  his 
fate?     (^)  Why  is  the  death  of  Mercutio  so  immediate? 

7  (a)  How  far  are  Romeo's  feelings  changed  (11.  124,  125) 
by  (11.  121-123)  Benvolio's  words?  (^)  Can  you  see  the  reason 
why  Tybalt  ventures  to  come  back  ?  (^r)  What  must  be  the  air, 
the  manner  (1.  126)  that  he  shows?  (d)  Can  you  explain  the 
sudden  change  in  Romeo's  feeling?  (^)  How  far  would  an 
Anglo-Saxon  Romeo  change  like  this? 

8  (a)  What  does  Romeo  mean  (1.  130)  by  'take  the  villain 
back  again'?  Is  this  like  Romeo?  {d)  What  do  you  say  of 
the  rest  of  this  paragraph  to  Tybalt?  Are  you  disappointed  in 
your  hero?  (^)  What  effect  does  Tybalt's  answer  (11.  135,  136) 
make  on  you?  (d)  Do  you  find  Romeo  inclined  to  brag? 
(e)  How  long  does  the  bout  last?  (/)  What  does  this  show 
as  to  the  resources  of  the  combatants  ?  (g)  Which  is  the  older 
and  heavier  and  more  practised  champion  apparently  ? 

9  (a)  Why  has  not  Benvolio  done  something,  or  proposed  to 
do  something,  to  avenge  his  friend?  (i)  Why  have  not  the 
citizens  appeared  already?  (c)  Why  does  Romeo  hesitate,  and 
need  repeated  exhortation,  to  flee?  (d)  What  does  Romeo 
mean  (1.  141)  in  'I  am  fortune's  fool'?  (e)  What  are  your 
feelings  toward  him  now? 

10  (a)  Why  does  Benvolio  remain?  (^)  Why  does  the  First 
Citizen  (11.  144,  145)  arrest  Benvolio  for  answering  his  question? 
(c)  Can  you  see  any  reason  why  the  author  should  wish  to  set  us 
more  completely  (11.  153,  154)  against  Lady  Capulet?  (d)  Do 
we  learn  anything  further,  from  (11.  158,  179)  Benvolio's  account, 
about  the  duel  between  Tybalt  and  Romeo  ?     (^)  Does  Benvolio, 


III.  II]  ROMEO  AND  JULIET  373 

in  his  report,  favour  his  friend?    Why  could  he  (11.  177,  178)  not 
'  draw  to  part  them '  ? 

1 1  {a)  Why  does  not  Romeo's  mother  make  some  counter- 
plea  against  (11.  185,  186)  Lady  Capulet's  request  for  vengeance? 
{b)  Why  should  the  Prince  (11.  191,  192)  change  his  mind  when 
Montague  speaks?  {c)  What  do  you  think  of  the  justice  of 
Romeo's  sentence?  {d)  How  are  your  impressions  now  rel- 
atively of  Mercutio's  and  Romeo's  powers?  (^)  Have  you  had 
the  same  estimate  from  the  first  ?  (/")  For  what  was  Mercutio 
chiefly  needed?  {g)  Why  was  he  made  so  brilliant?  (/;)  What 
use  in  special  and  at  large  has  the  author  made  of  Benvolio? 
(/)  Does  he  appear  again? 

SCENE  u 

1  {a)  What  is  the  time  of  this  scene?  {b)  How  long  is  it 
since  we  saw  Juliet  here  before?  (c)  Do  you  or  do  you  not  con- 
clude that  her  having  been  shown  here  in  the  orchard  before  has 
anything  to  do  with  her  being  presented,  waiting  for  Romeo, 
now?  {d)  How  far  and  in  what  way  do  you  find  your  impres- 
sions of  Juliet  altered  from  such  as  were  formed  in  the  second 
scene  of  the  last  act?  {e)  What  has  taught  Juliet  so  much  since 
her  mother  talked  to  her  of  Paris  ? 

2  {a)  What  of  the  language,  the  imagery,  of  this  opening 
paragraph?  {b)  In  this  intensest  activity  of  her  imagination, 
how  far  do  you  find  the  objective,  Imogen-like  qualities  observed 
in  former  scenes?  (t)  Do  you  or  do  you  not  find  anything  in 
phrase  or  manner  suggestive  of  a  masculine  personality  ?  (d)  How 
differently  would  an  Anglo-Saxon  Juliet  have  soliloquised?  (^)  Do 
you  or  do  you  not  here  find  anything  unmaidenly  and  gross  ? 

3  {a)  What  signifies  the  sombre  hues  and  tints  that  Juliet's 
imagination  uses,  and  the  absence,  for  an  Italian  mind  like  hers, 
of  intense,  warm  colours?  {b)  Of  what  character  are  the  strong 
ideas  and  terms  in  (11.  10-21)  the  middle  part  of  the  paragraph? 
{c)  How  well  does  it  appear  that  Juliet  understands  herself  at 
this  interesting  moment  ?  {d)  Why  do  you  suppose  Shakespeare 
has  made  us  overhear  this  paragraph,  or  rather  has  made  her  utter 
it  on  purpose  for  us  to  overhear?  {e)  What  do  you  say  of  the 
means  used  to  stop  the  soliloquy?     (/)  What  dramatic  need  of 


374  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [HI.  Il 

having  the  Nurse  bring  the  rope-ladder  and  throw  it  down  in  our 
sight? 

4  (a)  Why  does  the  author  repeat,  in  the  lines  following,  the 
part  of  the  Nurse  in  the  fifth  scene  of  the  last  act  ?  (d)  If  his 
wish  be,  as  seems,  to  make  Juliet  believe  that  her  husband  is 
dead,  what  must  be  his  artistic  motive  ?  Is  it  for  eiTect  upon 
Juliet  or  ourselves  ?  (c)  Is  the  Nurse,  in  your  opinion,  more 
than  willing,  does  she  intend,  to  give  Juliet  pain  ?  (d)  Do  you 
take  it  that  Tybalt,  as  (1.  6i)  she  says,  has  been  good  to  the 
Nurse  ?  (e)  Can  you  see  reasons  why  (1.  66)  Juliet  should 
have  been  fond  of  such  a  cousin  ? 

5  (a)  How  must  Juliet  have  conceived  of  Tybalt  (1.  71)  as 
slain  by  Romeo  ?  (d)  How  can  you  account  for  (11.  73-85) 
what  she  says  explaining  it  ?  (c)  Why  does  the  Nurse  so 
quickly  (11.  85-90)  turn  to  denunciation  ?  (d)  What  effect  of 
this,  and  especially  of  her  last  words,  on  Juliet  ?  Can  you 
explain  ?  (e)  How  fully  does  she  now  realise  (11.  1 01-107)  how 
the  killing  happened  ? 

6  (a)  How  is  it  that  Juliet  did  not  realise  (1.  108)  the 
Nurse's  word  concerning  Romeo  ?  (d)  Why  does  she  think,  from 
'  banished,'  that  Romeo  is  already  gone  ?  (c)  Why  does  she 
now  (1.  127)  ask  for  her  father  and  her  mother  ?  (d)  Why 
does  she  assume  (11.  130-137),  concerning  her  fate,  the  worst  ? 
(e)  What,  after  all  the  pain  she  has  caused  Juliet,  starts  up  the 
Nurse  ?  (/)  Can  you  account  for  Juliet's  thinking  (1.  142)  to 
send  the  ring  ? 

SCENE   III 

1  (a)  Where  is  Romeo  when  the  Friar  (1.  i)  summons  him 
to  come  forth  ?  (d)  What  does  this  scene  connect  with  ?  How 
much  time  has  elapsed  ?  (c)  How  is  it  that  the  Friar  now  tells 
(1.  11)  what  the  sentence  is,  Romeo  not  knowing  ?  (d)  Why 
is  it  that  Romeo  prefers  death  to  banishment  ?  Is  he  in  his 
right  mind  ?  How  would  an  Anglo-Saxon  Romeo  feel  ? 
{e)  Which  of  the  two  is  subordinated  here,  and  how  ? 

2  (a)  What,  at  the  knocking  (1.  71),  gives  the  Friar  concern  ? 
(d)  What  do  the  quick  repeated  knockings  show  as  to  the  new- 
comer's state  of  mind  ?     (c)  Why  does  Romeo  assume  (11.  94- 


III.  V]  ROMEO  AND  JULIET  375 

98)  that  Juliet's  love  has  ceased  because  of  Tybalt's  death  ? 
(d)  How  should  the  Friar  know  more  (11.  117  and  135)  of 
lovers'  philosophy  than  Romeo  ?  (e)  Whom  does  the  author 
make  responsible  for  Romeo's  visit  to  his  wife  ?  Why  does 
Shakespeare  do  this  ? 

3  (a)  Why  has  the  author  made,  on  both  sides,  such  ado 
before  allowing  Romeo  to  go  to  Juliet's  chamber  ?  Is  it  for 
their  sake  or  for  ours  ?  (d)  What  is  the  Friar's  motive?  Why 
does  he  wish  to  make  the  marriage  irrevocable  ?  {c)  Why  did 
not  the  Nurse,  at  the  outset,  give  Romeo  the  ring  ?  (J)  Why 
does  the  author  have  the  Nurse  withdraw  in  advance  of  Romeo 
and  not  with  him  ?  (e)  Do  you  think  the  Friar's  plan  (11.  150- 
154)  practicable  and  wise  ?  (/")  Who  are  meant  (1.  150)  by 
'  we '  ?  (g)  Will  Romeo's  absence,  apparently,  when  the 
marriage  is  proclaimed,  assist  or  hinder  the  reconciliation  of  the 
houses  ? 

SCENE   IV 

1  (a)  Why  should  Paris  have  come  to  the  home  of  the  Capu- 
lets,  at  such  a  time,  on  business  of  his  own  ?  (d)  Is  it  signifi- 
cant that,  at  this  visit,  Lady  Capulet  also  is  present  ?  (c)  Do 
you  take  it  that  Paris  has  been  pressing  his  suit  for  Juliet,  to  her 
father,  since  (I.  ii)  we  saw  him  last  ?  (d)  How  long  do  you 
infer  (1.  7)  he  has  at  this  time  stayed  ?  (e)  What  makes  Capu- 
let (11.  12,  13)  think  it  best  now  to  accede  ? 

2  (a)  Does  it  seem  that  Lady  Capulet  has  spoken  to  Juliet, 
since  (I.  iii)  their  first  talk,  of  Paris's  suit  ?  (d)  Why  does  the 
author  make  Capulet  (1.  15)  in  such  haste  to  have  Juliet  ap- 
proached ?  (c)  How  does  Shakespeare  make  (11.  19-28)  this 
scandalous  speed  plausible  ?  (<•/)  How  well  do  you  like  Paris's 
opinion  (1.  29)  of  the  plan  ?  (e)  What  further  characterisation 
of  Capulet  is  to  be  found  in  this  scene  ?  (/")  Why  do  we  not 
hear  more,  in  this  conference  with  Paris,  from  Lady  Capulet  ? 
(g)  What  additional  light  is  thrown  upon  the  character  of 
Juliet's  mother  in  this  scene  ? 

SCENE   V 

I  (a)  Did  Lady  Capulet  go,  as  bidden,  to  Juliet's  chamber 
before  she  went  to  bed  ?    Why  ?     (i>)  How  far  is  Juliet's  first 


3/6  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE?  [HI.  v 

paragraph  marked  with  her  former  and  usual  matter-of-fact  qual- 
ity, and  how  far  Romeo's  first,  with  the  opposite  ?  (c)  What 
Italianism  does  Shakespeare  venture  in  1.  12  ?  Where,  in 
scenes  preceding,  has  he  once  at  least  borrowed  the  same  idiom  ? 

(d)  Are  you  not  surprised  that  Juliet  should  soberly  speak 
(II.  13-16)  of  the  daybreak  in  the  way  she  does  (  How  do  you 
explain  ?  (e)  What  do  you  say  of  Romeo's  answering  para- 
graph ?  Is  what  is  said  genuinely  meant  ?  (/)  How  far 
might  an  Anglo-Saxon  Romeo  be  expected  to  feel  and  say  the 
like? 

2  (a)  What  words  in  1.  25  have  stress  ?  (d)  What  has 
caused  (1.  26)  the  change  in  Juliet  ?  Does  the  remainder 
of  the   paragraph    sound    like    her    new    or   her    former  self  ? 

(c)  Why  should  the  Nurse  (1.  37)  say  'Madam'?  (d)  What 
does  Juliet  (1.  41),  after  she  hears  the   Nurse's  warning,  do  ? 

(e)  Is  it  according  to  nature,  or  is  it  not,  that  Juliet  does  not 
respond  (1.  42)  to  Romeo's  farewell  ?  Where  is  she  when  he 
is  next  addressed  ?  (/)  Is  the  parting,  on  Romeo's  side,  in 
accord  with  his  masculine  nature  ? 

3  (a)  Why  is  not  Romeo  inclined  now,  as  at  other  times 
(cf.  I.  iv.  106-111),  to  look  with  Juliet  (1.  54)  on  the  dark  side 
of  their  future  ?     In  what  points  are  her  nature  and  his  alike  ? 

(d)  How  far  does  Romeo  seem  really  (11.  58,  59)  to  catch  Juliet's 
mood  ?  (c)  What  hint  as  to  companionship  with  her  mother 
is  Juliet  (1.  67)  made  to  give  us  ?  Can  you  account  for  such 
relations  between  a  mother  and  her  only  child  ?  (d)  When  did 
Juliet's  tears  begin  ?     (e)  Why  does  she  resort  (1.  69)  to  fibbing  ? 

4  (a)  Why  should  Lady  Capulet  assume  (1.  70),  with  no 
evidence  and  without  preliminaries,  such  a  cause  for  her  daugh- 
ter's weeping  ?  (b)  Why  does  Juliet  make  such  extended  use 
of  the  subterfuge  offered  by  her  mother  ?  (c)  Do  you  think  the 
mother  proposes  to  poison  Romeo  for  her  own  vengeance,  or  to 
humour  Juliet?  (d)  What  does  Juliet  mean  (1.  98)  in  *I 
would  temper  it '  ?  Would  she  need  to  see  this  man,  to  accom- 
plish this  ?  (e)  What  race  differences  patent  in  this  dialogue  ? 
(/)  How  did  Shakespeare  know  so  well  how  an  Italian  daugh- 
ter and  her  mother,  of  the  top  of  respectability,  would  talk  at 
such  a  time  ? 


III.  V]  ROMEO   AND   JULIET  377 

5  (a)  What  do  you  say  (11.  106,  107)  of  Juliet's  words  to  her 
mother  ?  What  mood  is  in  them  ?  Are  there  tears  yet  in  her 
voice?  (d)  What  feeling  (1.  112)  follows?  (c)  What  change 
(11.  117,  118)  comes  now  ?     Are  there  tears  in  the  tones  here  ? 

(d)  How  far  did  the  author  intend  to  make  the  energy  (1.  122: 
'I  swear')  of  her  language  significant?  (e)  What  (11,  125, 
126)  is  her  mother's  feeling  ? 

6  (a)  Why  should  Capulet  (11.  127-138)  talk  at  such  length 
of  Juliet's  weeping  ?  (^)  Can  you  explain  Lady  Capulet's  man- 
ner (1.  141)  of  seconding  her  husband  ?  (c)  How  far  has  Capu- 
let (1.  145)  'wrought'  Paris  to  be  Juliet's  suitor?  (d)  What 
does    Juliet    really   mean    (1.    149)    by    'thankful    for    hate'? 

(e)  How  far  does  Capulet  seem  to  understand  what  she  has 
said  ?     (/")  What  do  you  say  of  his  language  to  her  ? 

7  (a)  Is  it  or  is  it  not  now  clearer  why  Shakespeare  has  not 
made  Capulet  of  the  same  mould  as  the  Montagues  ?  (d)  What 
does  Juliet  (11.  159,  160),  now  kneeling,  propose  to  say  to  her 
father  ?  (c)  How  does  the  author  prevent  her  doing  this  ? 
(d)  Why  is  the  Nurse  made  (11.  169,  170)  to  protest  against 
Capulet's  abuse  ?  (e)  Why  does  not  Juliet  confess  to  her 
mother  (11.  200-203)  that  she  is  a  wife  already  ?  (/)  Do  you 
think  Lady  Capulet  afraid  to  stand  up  for  her  child  ? 

8  (a)  Why  does  not  the  Nurse  now  disclose  Juliet's  relation 
with  Romeo  ?  (d)  What  is  the  ground  of  Juliet's  dismay,  her 
obligation  to  Romeo,  or  her  obligation  to  duty  ?  (c)  Whom 
does  it  seem  that  Juliet  has  depended  on  chiefly  hitherto,  her 
parents  or  the  Nurse  ?  (d)  Why  has  Shakespeare  given  the 
play  a  nurse  that  will  propose  to  Juliet  such  infamy  ?  (e)  Why 
is  she  betrayed  into  speaking  disparagingly  of  Romeo  ? 
(/")  What  race  characteristics  distinguish  her  from  such  a  figure 
in  an  Anglo-Saxon  household  ? 

9  (a)  How  is  it  that  Juliet  has  never  (1.  228)  till  now  dis- 
cerned the  moral  nature  of  her  companion?  (i)  How  would  an 
Anglo-Saxon  Juliet,  at  (1.  230)  the  point  where  her  Italian  sister 
dissembles,  have  behaved?  (c)  And  what  of  the  immediate  and 
unhesitating  prevarication  (11.  231-233)  to  her  mother?  How 
would  that  strike  us  in  a  heroine  of  our  own  race?  (d)  Is  this 
a  difference  in  nature  or  in  training?     (e)  What  do  you  say  of 


3/8  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [HI.  v 

Juliet's  idea  of  (11.  236-239)  the  'sins'  of  the  Nurse?  What 
does  this  hint  as  to  Juliet's  ethic  and  religious  training? 
(/■)  What  is  the  effect  on  Juliet  of  this  defection  of  the  Nurse? 
{g)  Do  you  think  Juliet  really  has  the  power  (1.  242),  in  case  of 
an  adverse  issue,  that  she  supposes?  (//)  How  would  an  English 
or  American  girl  of  equivalent  maturity  and  strength  prepare  for 
failure  ? 


ACT   IV 


SCENE  I 


1  (a)  At  what  time  of  the  day  does  this  scene  open  ?  (d)  How 
far  have  the  events  of  the  last  scene  reached,  at  its  beginning? 

(c)  What  has  Paris  come  to  Friar  Laurence  for?  (</)  Has  he 
waited  to  learn,  from  her  parents,  Juliet's  mind?  (e)  Do  you 
imagine  that  what  he  says  (11.  9-12)  of  Capulet's  purpose  is  a 
fair  and  truthful  statement?  How  does  he  know?  (/)  Why  is 
Paris  unwilling  to  take  any  share  of  responsibility  for  the  hurried 
marriage  ? 

2  (a)  How  is  it  that  Paris,  too  bashful  to  woo,  is  now  (11.  18, 
20,  22,  24)  so  bold?  (d)  Whom  does  Juliet  mean  (1.  25)  by 
'him'?  (c)  What  do  you  say  in  general  of  Juliet's  answers? 
How  far  do  you  find  her  petulant,  indignant,  spiteful?  {(/)  Do 
you  think  her  really  more  tolerant,  or  less  tolerant,  in  her  feelings 
toward  Paris  here  than  a  Northern  Juliet  would  be?  Can  you 
identify  the  forces  the  principles  involved?  (e)  What  does 
Paris  mean  (1.  29)  by  'abused  with  tears'? 

3  (a)  What    effect    is    produced    on    you    by   Paris'   talk? 

(d)  What  do  you  say  of  Juliet's  manner  of  getting  free  of 
Paris?  Is  she  precipitate?  Does  he  guess  her  feeling? 
(6")  How  does  the  author  make  us  sure  what  that  feeling  is? 
Why  does  he  do  this?  (d)  Can  you  explain  how  Juliet  (11.  50, 
51)  should  be  peevish  and  unreasonable?  (e)  How  is  it  that 
(1.  54)  she  has  a  knife?  (/)  Does  the  Friar  believe  that  Juliet 
will  do  as  she  proposes? 

4  (a)  What  (11.  71-74)  is  the  artistic  purpose  that  Shake- 
speare is  occupied  with  now?  (d)  Do  you  think  Juliet  naturally 
a  fearless  woman?  Do  you  believe  that  she  realises  (11.  77-85) 
what  she  is  saying?  (c)  What  do  you  say  (11.  87,  88)  of  her 
motive  as  she  interprets  it?  Do  you  think  it  natural  or  not 
natural  that  she  should  understand  so  clearly  the  forces  that 

379 


380  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [IV.  i 

control  her  being?  (ci)  Do  you  think  that  the  author  has  or 
has  not  brought  her  to  womanhood  too  speedily?  (e)  Why 
does  the  Friar  cry  'Hold,'  and  repeatedly,  to  Juliet? 

5  (a)  Why  does  not  Juliet  confess,  or  get  absolved,  before 
such  a  momentous  undertaking?  Why  does  not  the  Friar 
require  it?  (d)  Were  there  ever  concoctions  capable  of  pro- 
ducing such  results  as  (11.  95-106)  the  Friar  describes?  How 
far  was  the  belief  of  Shakespeare's  audiences  in  such  things 
different  from  ours?  (c)  Why  is  the  Friar  made  to  outline  to 
us,  in  advance,  the  operation  of  the  potion?  (d)  Why  does  he 
speak  of  Juliet  being  'uncovered'  on  the  bier,  and  clad  in  the 
best  of  her  daily  wearing? 

6  (a)  Is  there  anything  in  the  Friar's  plan,  besides  relief, 
that  furnishes  a  motive  to  Juliet?  (d)  Why  does  the  Friar  utter 
(11.  119,  120)  any  hint  of  a  proviso?  (c)  What  do  you  find 
(1.  121)  in  Juliet's  mood?  (d)  Why  does  the  Friar  refer  again 
(11.  123,  124)  to  Romeo?  (e)  Why  does  not  this  high-bred  girl 
at  least  thank  the  Friar  before  withdrawing?  (/)  Do  you  think 
that  Juliet  (1.  125)  realises  much  of  what  is  before  her? 

SCENE  II 

r  (a)  How  many  guests  at  first  (III.  iv.  23)  did  Capulet  pro- 
pose to  have  at  Juliet's  wedding?  What  does  the  present  prepa- 
ration (1.  2)  seem  to  argue?     (d)  How  do  you  explain  the  change? 

(c)  Has  the  Nurse  (11.  n,  12)  told  Lady  Capulet  what  Juliet  bade? 

(d)  How  far  do  you  blame  Juliet  (11.  15  and  18-22)  for  looking 
merry  and  practising  deceit?  Who  is  responsible  for  her  actions 
here?  (e)  What  punishment  for  affecting  enthusiasm  (1.  24) 
now  comes?  (/)  Does  Juliet  (11.  25-27)  seem  to  mind?  Would 
other  Juliets  probably  feel  in  the  same  way  at  such  a  turn  ? 

2  (a)  Why  does  Juliet  (1.  28)  still  kneel?  (d)  Who  does 
Capulet  (1.  30)  intend  should  go  to  tell  Paris  of  the  shortened 
interval?  (c)  Why  does  Juliet  take  the  Nurse  away?  (d)  Why 
does  Lady  Capulet  (1.  36)  hold  out  for  Thursday?  (e)  What  is 
the  time-scheme,  thus  far,  of  the  play? 

3  (a)  Why  is  Capulet  insistent  (1.  37)  that  the  wedding 
shall  be  changed  to  Wednesday?      (d)    Why  has  Shakespeare 


IV.  Ill]  ROMEO   AND   JULIET  38 1 

wished,  through  him,  to  change  the  time?  (c)  How  will  Capu- 
let's  stirring  about  (1.  39)  assist?  {d)  Whom  (I.  43)  does  Capu- 
let  try  to  summon?  Is  he  now  alone?  (e)  Do  you  find  or  not 
find  that  you  dislike  this  man?  (/")  Do  you  like  him  or  not  like 
him  better  than  Romeo's  father? 

SCENE   III 

1  {a)  How  far  is  Juliet  (1.  i)  giving  herself  concern  over  what 
she  shall  meet  Romeo  in,  and  how  she  shall  look?  {b)  What 
of  her  character  is  discerned  in  this?  {c)  Would  Northern 
Juliets  typically  seem  different  or  not  different  here?  (^)  Why 
did  the  Friar  require  (1.  2)  that  Juliet  'lie  alone'?  (e)  Why  is 
Lady  Capulet  so  late  (ii.  41)  in  complying  with  her  husband's 
wish?  {/)  What  do  you  say  of  Juliet's  way  (11.  7-10)  of  dealing 
with  her  mother,  who  has  come  to  help?  {g)  Where  does  Juliet 
get  her  strength  of  character? 

2  {a)  What  is  Juliet's  feeling  (1.  14)  as  she  bids  her  mother 
and  the  Nurse  farewell?  {b)  Are  you  disappointed  that  (1.  18)  she 
calls  for  help  ?  Why  does  she  yield  to  the  impulse  ?  (c)  How 
is  it  that,  to  bring  '  them '  back,  she  calls  for  the  Nurse  alone  ? 
(d)  What  effect  is  produced,  by  (11.  18,  19)  her  rallying  herself, 
upon  our  sympathies  ?  {e)  What  do  you  say  (11.  21-23)  o^  the 
logic  and  order  of  her  procedure  ? 

3  (a)  What  is  the  practical  result  (11.  24-29)  of  her  second 
inquiry  ?  {b)  What  kind  of  a  temperament  and  mind  do  we 
(11.  30-35)  now  find  are  Juliet's  ?  (f)  What  effect  of  such  visu- 
alising and  realising,  as  follow  upon  the  plausibility  of  her  act  ? 
{d)  What  is  the  result  of  this  realising,  in  Juliet's  intense  and 
vivid  vision,  of  her  coming  experiences  in  detail  ?  {e)  Of  what 
imaginative  quality  (11.  36-54)  do  you  find  these  lines  ? 

4  (<z)  How  does  Juliet  chance  to  realise  now  (11.  55,  56),  ap- 
parently for  the  first  time,  her  cousin  Tybalt's  hate  ?  (^)  Why 
does  she  cry  out  that  Tybalt  should  stay  ?  {c)  Why  does  she 
call  to  Romeo,  and  propose  to  come  to  him  at  such  a  moment  of 
peril  ?  Does  she  think  perhaps  to  go  to  them,  in  spirit,  by  way 
of  the  vial,  or  what  is  her  thought  ?  (d)  What  do  you  say  of 
the  force,  the  energy,  of  the  paragraphs  in  this  scene  ?  {e)  Have 
your  impressions  of  Juliet  been  altered  in  any  way  ? 


382  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [IV.  iv 

SCENE   IV 

1  (a)  What  is  the  point  of  showing,  now,  while  Juliet  lies  as 
in  death  upstairs,  the  bustle  and  commotion  below  in  Capulet's 
mansion  ?  (d)  Of  what  use  is  Capulet  making  himself  in  the 
preparations  ?  (0  Why  should  it  be  the  Nurse  who  (IL  6-8) 
takes  Capulet  to  task  for  staying  up  ?  (</)  What  seems  to  be 
the  spirit  (11.  14,  17,  and  18)  of  the  servants  in  these  extra  de- 
mands ?     (e)  Why  is  not  Peter  more  acceptable  ? 

2  (a)  How  does  Capulet  enable  himself  to  make  the  discov- 
ery (1.  20)  that  it  is  day  ?  (d)  How  far  is  it  significant  that 
he  (1.  23)  selects  the  Nurse  to  apprise  Juliet  ?  (c)  Why  should 
he  propose  (1.  25)  '  to  chat '  with  Paris  at  such  a  time  ?  (d)  How 
many  times  has  Capulet  charged  somebody  to  stir  or  hasten  in 
this  scene  ?  How  much  acquaintance  with  the  things  going  on 
does  all  this  argue  ?  (e)  Why  has  Capulet  been  made  of  late 
such  an  important  figure  ?    And  since  when  ? 

SCENE  V 

1  (a)  Why  has  Shakespeare  not  permitted  Juliet's  mother 
to  be  the  first  to  enter  here  ?  {d)  By  what  rule  of  efiicacy  does 
the  Nurse  seem  to  select  (11.  2,  3)  awakening  words  ?  (c)  Why 
(1.  10)  does  not  the  author  introduce  Paris  (cf.  i.  107,  108)  here, 
and  suit  the  taste  of  his  times  ?  (</)  How  is  it  that  Juliet  is  not 
found,  as  the  Friar  seems  to  have  intended,  lying  in  her  bed  ? 
(e)  What  accompanies  (1.  13)  the  Nurse's  saying  'Lady,  lady, 
lady'  ?  (/)  Does  the  Nurse  get  (1.  16)  the  aqua  vitae  called 
for  ?     Why  does  she  call  for  it  ? 

2  (a)  What  is  the  effect  of  the  sight  (11.  19-21)  upon  Lady 
Capulet  ?  (d)  What  new  impressions  have  you  of  her  nature  .'' 
Does  she  seem  Italian  now  ?  (c)  Has  Capulet  heard  (1.  22)  ap- 
parently the  call  for  help  ?  (d)  Why  does  the  Nurse  (1.  23)  add 
'  deceased '  to  her  excited  outcry  ?  (^)  What  does  Lady  Capu- 
let do  in  connection  with  (1.  24)  her  next  exclamation  ? 

3  (a)  What  do  you  say  of  Capulet's  utterance  (11.  25-29)  as 
he  lays  his  hands  upon  his  child  ?  Why  is  there,  from  this  man 
of  all  men,  poetic  language  ?  (d)  Does  it  seem  that  the  lips 
(1.  27)  are  closed  or  parted  .''  (c)  What  does  Capulet  mean 
(1.  32)  by  'ties  up  my  tongue'  ?     (d)  Does  it  seem  that  Capulet 


IV.  V]  ROMEO  AND  JULIET  383 

or  Lady  Capulet  connects  this  death  with  the  forced  marriage  ? 
{e)  Why  should  Friar  Laurence  and  the  musicians  enter  Juliet's 
apartments  ?     Should  the  setting  perhaps  be  changed  ? 

4  {a)  How  far  does  Capulet's  grief  (11.  34-40)  seem  tender 
and  genuine  ?  (b)  Why  is  the  Nurse's  lamenting  (11.  49-54)  so 
demonstrative  ?  {c)  Can  you  interpret  what  Paris  in  his  grief 
(11.  55-58)  is  saying?  {d)  Why  is  the  author  keeping  this 
situation  open  with  so  much  talk  ?  {e)  Of  what  use  is  (11.  65-83) 
the  preachment  of  the  Friar  ? 

5  (a)  What  do  you  say  of  the  practicalness  (11.  84-90)  of 
Capulet's  response  ?  {b)  From  which  of  her  parents  has  Juliet 
seemingly  derived  her  matter-of-fact  tendencies  of  mind  ?  (<:)  How 
does  Shakespeare  manage  to  close  the  dialogue  ?  {d)  What 
need  to  hurry  the  supposed  burial  of  Juliet  ?  (e)  How  is  it  that 
the  musicians  have  not  been  dismissed  ?  (/")  How  is  it  that 
the  Nurse  has  not  withdrawn  before  ?  What  purpose  does  the 
author  serve  by  retaining  her  as  he  does  ? 

6  (a)  What  is  there  in  the  Nurse's  figure  that  (11.  100,  loi) 
excites  comment  ?  {b)  Has  Peter,  do  you  think,  been  sent 
here  by  anybody?  {c)  Why  is  it  that  his  sorrow  is  so  strong  ? 
{d)  Why  does  the  author  keep  the  musicians  now,  for  this  hardly 
edifying  dialogue  ?  (^)  Is  it  or  is  it  not  well  to  close  the  scene 
with  a  dallying  anticlimax  ? 


ACT  V 


SCENE  I 


1  (a)  At  what  time  in  the  day,  apparently,  does  the  scene 
open  ?  Is  it  soon  after  Romeo's  rising  ?  (d)  Why  is  Romeo 
so  inclined  to  trust  to  the  flattering  truth  of  dreams  ?  Where 
hitherto  has  he  been  shown  superior  to  their  spell  ?  (c)  Why 
does  the  author,  in  this  first  paragraph,  give  us  again  the  typic 
Romeo  of  the  earlier  scenes  ?  (d)  What  does  this  manner  of 
referring  (1.  6)  to  Juliet  betray  ?  (e)  What  new  impressions 
come  as  to  the  difference  between  this  man's  manner  of  thinking 
and  living  and  Juliet's?  (/)  Is  this  difference  due  to  race,  or 
sex,  or  personality  ? 

2  (a)  Why  does  not  Balthasar  (1.  ii)  speak?  (d)  Are 
there  letters  (1.  13)  in  sight?  (c)  Is  it  significant  that  Romeo 
makes  no  inquiry  about  his  mother  ?  (d)  What  do  you  say  of 
Balthasar's  report  (11.  17-21)  of  Juliet's  death  ?  Is  he  a  man  of 
refinement  and  culture  ?  (e)  What  has  happened  (1.  22)  that 
makes  him  ask  pardon  ? 

3  (a)  Why  does  Romeo  ask  no  questions  about  the  cause? 
(i>)  What  does  (1.  24)  his  defiance  show?  (c)  Is  Romeo  trust- 
ing the  truth  of  dreams  now  ?  What  has  stopped  the  boyhood 
in  him?  (d)  When  did  Juliet  stop  her  dreaming  and  become 
woman  ? 

4  (a)  Is  there  anything  Italian  in  Romeo's  manner  and  con- 
duct here?  (d)  What  does  Balthasar  (11.  27-29)  fear?  (c)  Why 
does  Romeo  (1.  34)  say  'Juliet,'  and  not  '  my  lady,'  now?  Is  his 
mind  in  excitement  or  repose?  (d)  Do  you  think  it  natural  or 
not  natural  that  the  sight  of  the  shop  (11.  42-48)  should  come  back 
to  him  vividly  in  such  detail?  Might  this  happen  to  an  Italian  if 
not  to  an  Anglo-Saxon  mind?  (e)  What  need  of  having  Romeo 
add  the  remaining  lines  in  this  paragraph? 

384 


V.  Ill]  ROMEO  AND  JULIET  38$ 

5  (a)  What  do  you  say  of  Romeo's  way  (11.  58-60)  of  bidding 
for  the  poison?  Do  you  think  he  has  other  money  here? 
(^)  Why  does  Romeo  crave  drugs  of  such  instantaneous  action  ? 
Is  it  to  end  life  with  the  utmost  quickness,  or  to  escape  the  pains 
of  death,  or  for  some  other  reason  ?  (c)  Do  you  think  the  apothe- 
cary yields  to  Romeo's  pleading  or  his  offer?  Does  he  or  does  he 
not  understand  that  he  could  have  a  larger  sum  on  demanding 
it?  (d)  Have  you  seen  Romeo  in  a  compelling  mood  before? 
(e)  How  far  is  it  from  Mantua  to  Verona?  (f)  Do  you  think 
Balthasar  will  tell  Romeo  the  particulars  of  Juliet's  death  as  they 
ride  together  ?    Why  ? 

SCENE  II 

1  (a)  What  do  you  say  of  the  dramatic  opening,  under  present 
circumstances,  of  this  scene  ?  (d)  Would  it  or  would  it  not  have 
been  better  were  this  scene  introduced  before  the  last?  (c)  How 
far  has  the  element  of  destiny  been  introduced  before  ?  (d? )  What 
impressions,  apart  from  knowledge,  come  to  you  with  reference 
to  the  issue  ? 

2  (a)  What  difference  between  the  Friars  is  evident  ?  (l?)  Why 
did  not  Friar  Laurence  tell  his  brother  the  dear  import  of  the 
letter?  (t)  Howlongisit  since  Juliet  took  the  potion?  (<■/)  What 
time  of  day  did  she  drink  it?  What  time  of  day  has  now  been 
reached?     {e)  Does  the  Friar's  amended  plan  seem  practicable? 

SCENE   III 

1  (a)  At  what  hour,  apparently,  does  this  scene  open  ?  (1^)  Why 
(1.  2)  would  Paris  not  be  seen?  What  advantage  does  Shake- 
speare borrow  thus?  (c)  Why  should  Paris  have  had  his  page 
come  to  carry  the  flowers?  (d)  What  impressions  and  feelings 
concerning  Paris  now  shape  themselves?  (e)  What  use  is  made 
of  having  the  page  at  hand  ? 

2  (a)  Has  the  arousement  of  Romeo's  mind  subsided? 
(b)  What  effect  (1.  40)  is  produced  upon  Balthasar  by  Romeo's 
words?  (c)  Is  Balthasar  a  man  easily  affrighted?  Where  have 
we  evidence  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  play?  (rtf)  Do  you  think 
Romeo  capable  of  carrying  out  his  threats  (11.  33-36)  with  such 
a  man?  (e)  Are  there  race  characteristics  or  differences  here? 
Explain. 

2C 


386  WHAT  IS  SHAKESPEARE  ?  [V.  ill 

3  (a)  What  does  Romeo  apparently  (1.  41)  give  to  his  man? 

(d)  Why  does  Shakespeare  make  this  action  seem  (11.  43,  44) 
to  betray  Romeo's  purpose?  (r)  What  do  you  say  of  Romeo's 
words  (11.  45-48),  as  he  wrenches  open  the  iron  bolts  of  the  tomb? 
How  do  they  measure  the  energy  of  his  action?  {d)  What  are 
your  feelings  toward    Paris,  as  he  attempts  to  arrest  Romeo? 

(e)  How  should  you  have  imagined  Romeo  would  deal  with 
him  ?  How  do  you  explain  his  tender  consideration  and  plead- 
ing? 

4  (a)  For  what  chief  use,  as  we  now  see,  was  the  page 
brought  in  ?  (d)  Is  the  fight  shorter  or  longer,  apparently,  than 
the  one  in  which  Tybalt  met  his  death?  Why?  Has  Romeo 
the  same  feeling  toward  his  victim  as  at  that  time?  {c)  How  do 
you  explain  Romeo"s  sublime  willingness  (1.  74)  to  allow  the  dead 
man's  wish,  and  lay  the  body  in  his  Juliet's  grave?  (^)  What 
word  in  1.  yy  has  chief  stress?  Would  an  Anglo-Saxon  Romeo 
have  failed  to  catch  and  hold  the  meaning?  (e)  How  far  does 
Romeo's  feeling  change  when  he  knows  Paris  was  his  rival? 
(/)  What  do  you  say  of  the  feeling  that  manifests  itself  (11.  80,  81) 
in  his  next  action  ?  (^)  Does  the  sight  of  Juliet,  in  all  her  reviv- 
ing, awakening  beauty,  make  him  lay  seemingly  the  body  of  Paris 
farther  off  ? 

5  (a)  What  influences  are  perhaps  arousing  the  feeling  (1.  89) 
Romeo  wonders  at?  (d)  Why  is  not  Juliet  (1.  96)  pale? 
(t)  What  do  you  say  of  (11.  101-109)  his  last  words  to  Juliet? 
Can  you  discern  the  secret  of  their  power?  (c/)  How  is  it  that 
he  does  not  perceive  that  (11.  113,  114)  the  lips  have  life?  (e)  Has 
he  obeyed  the  directions  (i.  yy)  of  the  apothecary?     Why? 

6  (a)  What   has    Friar   Laurence    (1.    122)    stumbled  over? 

(d)  What  does  the  Friar's  word  (1.  124)  show  as  to  his  feeling 
in   finding    Balthasar?      Why   should    he    have   such    feeling? 

(c)  Why  does  Shakespeare  keep  (1.  131)  Balthasar  from  looking 
upon  the  scene  within  the  tomb?  What  do  you  say  of  his  man- 
ner of  bringing  this  about?  (d)  Can  you  explain  (11.  137-139) 
Balthasar's  dream?    Why  should  he  have  failed  to  stay  awake? 

(e)  What  signifies  the  fact  that  (1.  142)  both  swords  are  gory? 

7  (a)  What  was    a   chief  dread   of   Juliet   about   awaking? 

(d)  What  word  (1.  148)   seems  to  show  that  this  feeling  has 


V.  Ill]  ROMEO   AND   JULIET  387 

lasted  through  her  trance?  (c)  Why  does  she  not  (1.  150)  see 
Romeo,  and  why  asks  for  him  so  immediately?  (</)  What 
effect  is  produced  on  Friar  Laurence  (1.  151)  by  the  noise?  Is 
this  plausible?  (e)  Why  does  he  not  stand  by  the  work  he  has 
begun?  (/)  Does  he  expect  to  move  Juliet  by  (11.  154-158) 
the  considerations  he  uses? 

8  (a)  Why  is  not  Juliet  (1.  160)  afraid  to  be  left  alone  in 
the  tomb?  (d)  How  is  it  that  she  does  not  cry  out  for  causes, 
reasons  ?  (c)  Why  is  there  no  grief  ?  (</)  Why  is  she  so  hap- 
pily anxious  to  seek  death?  (<?)  Show  how  far  she  is  yet 
(1.  168),  in  this  extreme  moment,  like  her  old  objective  self. 
(/)  Why  should  Juliet  be  concerned  at  the  noise?  (g)  Why 
is  the  dagger  (1.  169)  'happy'?  (/i)  Why  has  she  so  great 
joy,  so  little  horror,  in  her  act?  (t)  What  is  un-Saxon  in  the 
manner  of  this  awaking,  and  this  death  ? 

9  (a)  Should  you  have  expected  the  page  to  bring  watchmen 
earlier?  {d)  Why  does  the  First  Watchman  bid  (1.  178)  'raise 
up  the  Montagues'?  (c)  What  (1.  188)  is  the  time  now  reached? 
Why  has  the  author  so  accelerated  it?  (d)  Why  does  he  bring 
together  again  the  company  which  he  presented  early  in  the  first 
scene?  (e)  Does  Capulet  understand  (1.  203)  that  his  daughter 
is  only  just  dead  ? 

10  (a)  What  sort  of  a  mother  (1.  210)  do  we  see  that  Romeo 
had?  How  far  does  he  seem  to  have  derived  her  nature? 
(d)  What  necessity  that  we  should  hear  the  Friar  (11.  231-269) 
rehearse  the  story?  (c)  What  real  need  (1.  271)  of  corroborat- 
ing the  Friar's  testimony?  (d)  Is  the  letter  (1.  275)  a  logical 
factor,  and  is  it  of  use?  (e)  Does  Montague's  proposal  and 
promise  (1.  299)  seem  characteristic?  (/)  How  far  is  the  au- 
thor's statement  (11.  9-1 1  of  Prologue)  a  true  summary  of  the 
play  ?     (^)  What  ultimate  meanings,  or  lessons,  has  it  brought  ? 


Ill 

TWELFTH   NIGHT 
ACT  I 

SCENE  I 

1  (a)  What  is  the  mood  of  Orsino?  (6)  What  does  his 
fondness  for  music  and  the  fragrance  of  violets  argue  as  to  his 
temperament  and  nature?  (c)  What  do  his  reflections  (11.  9-15) 
signify  as  to  his  power  of  analysis  and  intellectual  culture? 
(^)  t)o  you  infer,  from  (1.  16)  Curio's  question,  that  the  Duke  is 
or  is  not  accustomed  to  ride  to  hounds?  (e)  What  do  you  con- 
clude, from  this  inference,  as  to  the  essential  manliness  or 
effeminacy  of  the  hero? 

2  (a)  What  do  we  find  has  drawn  the  Duke  away  from  manly 
exercises?  (d)  What  does  he  mean  in  (1.  20)  'purged  the  air 
of  pestilence'?  (c)  What  should  this  signify  as  to  Orsino's 
ideals,  and  the  purity  of  his  mind?  (d)  How  does  the  Duke 
here  resemble  Romeo  in  his  love  for  Rosaline?  {e)  How  far 
should  a  comedy  differ  in  tone  and  substance  from  a  tragedy  ? 

3  (a)  What  does  the  exclusion  of  Valentine  (1.  24)  from  the 
palace  of  a  neighbour  argue  as  to  the  feelings  of  the  hostess? 
(l>)  What  do  you  say  of  her  proposing  to  shut  herself  up  for 
seven  years  indoors?  Does  this  seem  prompted  by  natural  grief, 
or  by  some  other  motive?  (c)  What  of  the  aversion  that  can 
propose  to  itself,  for  relief,  such  deprivation  and  discomfort? 
(^)  Does  the  Duke  seem  wanting  in  acumen  and  judgment,  more 
than,  or  much  more  than,  Romeo?  Why  does  he  not  see  through 
the  subterfuge  of  the  lady?  (e)  How  different  does  this  Orsino 
seem  from  a  typical  Italian  hero?  (/")  How  does  Orsino  propose 
(11.  40,  41)  to  beguile  the  time? 

388 


I.  Ill]  TWELFTH  NIGHT  389 

SCENE   II 

1  (a)  Why  should  Viola,  in  this  situation,  be  the  first  to 
speak?  (d)  Why  does  not  this  high-born  young  woman  speak 
with  more  grief  (1.  5)  about  her  brother?  Does  it  seem  that  his 
death  or  rescue  is  the  first  and  most  fundamental  thing  in  her 
thoughts?  (c)  What  do  you  say  (11.  8-17)  of  the  Captain's 
explainings?  Is  the  polished  language  due  to  unusual  education, 
or  to  the  influence  of  the  person  who  is  addressed?  (d)  Why 
does  not  Viola  speak,  if  not  more  about  her  brother,  at  least 
about  the  destination  for  which  they  shipped,  how  she  may  con- 
tinue her  journey?  (e)  Does  it  or  does  it  not  appear  likely  that 
she  has  heard  others  (1.  28)  than  her  father  speak  of  this  Duke? 
Why  does  she  add  the  last  clause  of  the  sentence? 

2  (a)  How  far  do  the  inquiries  of  Viola  remind  you  of  Juliet's 
questioning  of  her  Nurse  on  first  meeting  Romeo?  (d)  What  is 
the  dilTerence  between  (1.  35)  'What's  she'  and  Who's  she? 
What  would  be  a  proper  answer  to  the  latter?  (c)  Why  should 
Viola  wish  (1.  41)  to  'serve 'that  lady?  (d)  What  are  we  to 
understand  from  'made  mine  own  occasion  mellow'?  (e)  Should 
you  say  that  her  brother,  on  setting  out,  was  a  party  to  the  scheme, 
or  plan,  according  to  which  his  sister's  '  estate '  was  to  be  kept 
concealed? 

3  (rt)  What,  said  by  the  Captain,  seems  to  change  Viola's 
rather  distant  wish  to  a  resolution?  (d)  Why  should  she,  who 
can  (1.  52)  pay  bounteously,  desire  to  be  a  servant  to  anybody? 

(f)  Why  has  she  concluded  to  change  from  the  Countess  to 
(1.  55)  the  Duke?  (d)  What  do  you  conceive  are  the  propor- 
tions of  Viola's  figure?  Why  does  she  not  (1.  56)  ofifer  herself 
for  the  Duke's  service  as  a  page?  (e)  What  do  you  say  of  the 
self-sufiiciency  and  strength  of  this  young  woman,  and  the  motives 
arousing  them?     (/)  In  how  far  does  she  remind  you  of  Juliet? 

(g)  From  what  country,  apparently,  have  Viola  and  her  brother 
sailed?     (/i)  In  what  seems  Illyria  different  from  Italy? 

SCENE  in 

I  (a)  What  is  Sir  Toby's  status  in  this  household  ?  ((5)  How 
did  such  a  man  reach  knighthood  ?  (c)  What  is  he  in  appear- 
ance and  figure?      (^)  What  are  your  impressions  of  Maria? 


390  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE?  [I.  in 

On  the  strength  of  what  does  she  presume  (11.  8,  9)  to  take  her 
mistress's  uncle  to  task?  (e)  Are  we  or  are  we  not  to  recognise 
more  than  a  household  interest  in  (11.  14,  15)  her  next  reference 
to  his  weakness?  (/)  From  where,  apparently,  did  Sir  Toby 
bring  in  (1.  16)  the  foolish  knight?  (g)  Which  seems  to  have 
the  better  of  the  other  in  this  dialogue? 

2  (a)  How  does  Sir  Andrew  contrast,  in  appearance  and 
figure  and  manners,  with  Sir  Toby?  What  do  you  say  of  his 
manner  of  greeting?  (^d)  How  should  such  a  fellow  have  become 
a  knight  ?  (t)  What  in  Sir  Andrew's  behaviour  seems  to  prompt 
(1.  52)  Sir  Toby's  'accost'?  (d)  Why  should  Sir  Andrew  fail 
so  egregiously  in  catching  Sir  Toby's  meaning?  (e)  Do  these 
knights  seem  to  be  Illyrians,  or  of  what  other  race?  (/")  Do 
you  think  Sir  Toby  refers  to  Maria  correctly  (1.  54)  as  his  niece's 
chambermaid?  (g)  Does  she  appear  to  belong  to  the  same 
nationality  as  Viola,  or  as  the  knights? 

3  (a)  What  effect  does  Sir  Toby's  assent  (1.  92)  to  Sir  An- 
drew's theory  of  his  slow  wit  seem  to  have  upon  his  visitor? 
(d)  Can  you  account  for  Olivia's  restrictions  (11.  11 5-1 17)  upon 
herself,  about  a  husband,  supposing  that  Sir  Toby  tells  the  truth? 

(c)  Why  should  Sir  Andrew  mention  (11.  120,  121)  his  fondness 
for  masques  and  revels  here?  Has  he  been  entertained  with 
these?  (d)  Does  Sir  Andrew's  quickness  or  grace  of  movement 
seem  to  be  of  the  kind  called  for  in  the  'galliard'?  Does  he 
know  apparently  what  sort  of  dance  is  meant?  (e)  Has  Sir  An- 
drew ever  been  out  of  England?     Has  Sir  Toby? 

4  (a)   Why  does  Sir  Toby  set  about  flattering  his  friend? 

(d)  What  sort  of  a  show  (11.  149-15 1)  does  Sir  Andrew  furnish? 
(c)  Why  does  Sir  Toby  wish  to  keep  Sir  Andrew  from  going 
home?  {d)  Why  is  not  Olivia,  in  this  scene  laid  in  her  own 
house,  presented  to  us?  (e)  Why  is  this  rather  inconsequential 
comedy  shown  first  and  instead  ? 

SCENE    IV 

I  (a)  Would  a  Valentine  be  likely  to  take  to  a  new  servant,  like 
Caesario,  with  no  trace  of  jealousy,  after  three  days  of  overshadow- 
ing? How  can  this  newcomer  have  thus  approved  herself  to 
everybody,  by  conduct  or  by  nature?     (^)  Why  should  Viola 


I.  v]  TWELFTH  NIGHT  39 1 

ask    (1.   7)    whether   her   master  is   inconstant   in   disposition? 

(c)  What  does  (1.  10)  the  Duke's  call,  and  the  manner  of  it, 
show?  (d)  Does  it  appear  (11.  11,  12)  that  Valentine  knows  the 
extent  to  which  Viola  has  gained  her  master's  confidence  ?  (e)  Do 
you  think  that  the  Duke  is  diffident,  unaccustomed  to  the  society 
of  refined  women?  Why  does  he  think  of  sending  Cassario 
rather  than  any  other  of  his  more  tried  servants  ? 

2  (a)  Do  you  think  that  Viola's  manner  of  humouring  her 
master,  and  of  inventing  select  and  gentle  offices,  is  fairly  illus- 
trated in  the  paragraphs  following?  (d)  What  does  the  Duke 
seem  (1.  21)  to  mean  by  'leap  all  civil  bounds'  ?  (c)  Do  you 
think  that  Viola  has  expected  (1.  23)  or  coveted  this  mission? 
{d)  Why  should  she  hesitate  to  see  her  rival?  (e)  Do  you  think 
she  will  (11.  41,  42)  do  her  best  for  the  Duke,  or  for  herself? 
(/")  How  would  this  scene  have  struck  you  if  Scene  iii  had  been 
omitted,  or  placed  after  ? 

SCENE  V 

1  (a)  Why  should  Maria  care  where  the  Clown  has  been? 
(l>)  What  sort  of  a  mistress  has  she,  to  remit  punishment  at  her 
excuse?     (c)   How  much  does  the  Clown  care   for   her   help? 

(d)  What  is  the  Clown's  point  in  referring  (11.  29,  30)  to  her 
wit  and  Toby's  drinking?  (e)  Why  should  the  author  introduce 
Olivia  after  the  dialogue  of  two  such  servants  as  Maria  and  the 
Clown  ?  (/")  And  what  sort  of  a  personage  in  appearance  and 
air  is  Malvolio? 

2  (a)  What  evidently  (1.  41)  does  the  Fool  essay  with  his 
mistress?  (d)  In  what  spirit  does  she  answer?  (c)  How  does 
the  Clown  manage  to  baffle  her  resolve  not  to  hear  him?  (^^j')  How 
does  Malvolio  stand,  and  look,  the  while?  (e)  What  character- 
isation of  their  mistress  is  effected  incidentally  withal  ? 

3  (a)  With  what  feeling  (II.  79,  80)  does  Olivia  end  her  dis- 
pleasure for  the  Fool's  truanting?  (<5)  How  do  you  think  the 
Fool  likes  Malvolio  (11.  81-83)  for  his  good  word?  (c)  What 
do  you  think  (11.  89-96)  is  the  measure  of  Malvolio's  mind? 
(d)  What  might  be  the  effect  on  Malvolio  of  his  mistress's  digni- 
fying him  thus  with  her  society?  (f)  Can  you  see  any  point  of 
the  author's  in  bringing  on  Viola  after  such  an  introduction  as 


392  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE?  [I.  v 

has  now  been  furnished?  (/")  Is  there  advantage  of  any  kind  in 
having  the  drunken  Sir  Toby  (1.  112)  'hold  him  in  delay'? 
(g)  Is  it  wise  for  Olivia  (1.  117)  to  commission  her  steward  to 
dismiss,  after  his  own  pleasure,  the  suit  of  the  Duke? 

4  (a)  How  has  Olivia  (11.  118,  119)  made  the  Clown  aware 
that  his  fooling  grows  stale?  What  is  causing  his  decline? 
(/?)  Why  does  not  the  author  let  Viola  come  in?  Why  does  he 
give  us  (11.  126-146)  Sir  Toby's  maudlin  talk,  and  the  Fool's 
weak  wit,  instead?  (c)  What  makes  Maria  and  Sir  Toby  both 
sure  that  the  man  at  the  gate  is  not  a  servant  but  a  gentleman? 

(d)  What  is  the  effect,  on  us,  of  hearing  Malvolio  (11.  147-171) 
discourse  solemnly  and  stiffly  about  Viola  and  her  insistence? 
(f)  Why  does  not  Viola  at  once  announce  herself  as  the  mes- 
senger of  the  Duke,  the  ruler  of  the  country?  (/)  Why  does 
Olivia  resolve  to  see  the  visitor? 

5  (a)  Why  does  Olivia  (1.  172)  call  Maria  her  'gentle- 
woman'? (3)  Do  you  understand  why  Olivia  should  have  re- 
sorted, before  the  Duke's  messengers,  to  this  veil?  (c)  To  whom 
does  Viola  (11.  182,  183)  appeal  for  knowledge  as  to  which  Olivia 
is?     (d)  Whom  does  she  address  in  (1.  186)  'Good  beauties'? 

(e)  Why  does  she  not  answer  (1.  190)  whence  she  comes? 
(/)  Do  you  think  she  has  really  (1.  193)  made  up  a  speech  and 
'conned'  it? 

6  (a)  Do  you  think  that  Viola  betrays,  or  does  not  betray,  in 
all  this,  her  sex?  (d)  Do  you  think  that  such  influences  as  are 
palpable  here  would  be  potent  or  not  to  a  man  like,  for  instance, 
the  Duke?  (c)  Is  the  mollification  of  Maria  (1.  218)  by  a  coin  a 
wise  expedient?  How  would  a  man  have  managed  in  such  an 
exigency?  (d)  What,  besides  curiosity,  prompts  Olivia  (1.  235) 
to  send  out  the  attendants  and  Maria,  and  hear  the  visitor? 
(e)  Why  is  she  willing  (11.  252,  253)  to  unveil?  (/)  What 
makes  Viola  ask  it  ? 

7  (a)  Do  you  think,  or  do  you  not  think,  that  Viola  finds 
Olivia  beautiful,  as  beautiful  as  herself  ?  What  effect,  upon  Viola, 
of  the  seeing  do  you  discern?  (d)  With  what  sincerity  or  with  what 
honesty  does  Viola  act  the  advocate  to  her  master?  (c)  Why  is 
there  a  change  from  prose  to  verse?  (d)  Do  you  think  Viola 
(11.  274,  275)  means  to  exaggerate?     (e)  Why  should  not  Olivia 


I.  v]  TWELFTH   NIGHT  393 

be  enamoured  of  a  man  (11.  276-282)  of  such  qualities  as  she 
enumerates?  {/)  What  does  V'iola  evidently  see  in  this  answer? 
How  far  is  she  impersonal  (II.  283-286)  in  her  rejoinder? 

8  {a)  By  what  different  course  of  wooing,  apparently,  might 
the  Duke  succeed?  {b)  What  do  you  say  (11.  286-295)  of  the 
mode  Viola  proposes?  Is  it  virile  or  womanish?  (c)  Is  it  the 
manner  or  the  person  that  Olivia  (1.  295)  approves?  Why  does 
she  ask  the  question  following?  {d)  What  word  in  1.  300  has 
stress?  {e)  What  does  (1.  302)  Olivia  offer?  Is  this  what  is 
given  usually  to  a  servant? 

9  (a)  How  can  Olivia,  who  rejects  Orsino's  effeminate  ad- 
vances, fall  in  love  with  a  woman?  {b)  What  makes  her  send 
Malvolio  after  with  the  ring?  Will  he  probably  execute  her  wish 
completely?  (c)  What  do  you  say  of  this  scene  as  a  whole? 
{d)  What  has  been  gained  by  making  Maria,  in  comparison  with 
her  mistress,  so  strong?  (e)  If  the  comedy  parts  in  the  first  por- 
tion (II.  I -1 76)  were  left  out,  what  would  be  the  effect  upon  the 
scene  and  on  the  piece?  (/")  What  two  veins  of  comedy  are 
apparent  in  the  construction  of  this  play?  (g)  What  would  be 
the  effect  if  either  were  used  alone? 


ACT  II 


SCENE   I 


1  (a)  Why  should  Antonio  (1.  i)  wish  Sebastian  to  stay,  or 
to  allow  his  company?  {d)  What  is  the  'malignancy'  (1.  4) 
of  Sebastian's  fate,  or  the  evidence  of  it  ?  (c)  Why  apparently 
does  Antonio  ask  (11.  9,  10)  the  destination  of  his  new  friend's 
travel  ?  (d)  Where,  after  the  first  three  words,  is  the  stress  in 
Sebastian's  answer  ?  (e)  What  of  the  consideration,  the  cour- 
tesy, shown  (11.  11-16)  by  Sebastian  to  the  stranger  ?  (/)  Did 
Viola  .seem  to  regret,  when  (I.  ii)  first  shown  to  us,  her  escape 
from  drowning,  though  a  woman,  and  conceiving  her  brother 
dead  .''    Why  should  Sebastian  regret  rescue  more  ? 

2  (a)  Would  it  seem  that  Viola  (11.  26,  27)  resembles  her 
brother  in  figure  ?  (d)  Would  the  purpose  of  the  voyage,  what- 
ever it  may  have  been,  seem  Sebastian's  rather,  or  Viola's  ? 
Did  VMola  weep  after  the  shipwreck  ?  (c)  How  is  it  that  after  all 
Sebastian  (11.  43,  44)  is  'bound'  to  Orsino's  court?  (d)  Do 
you  or  do  you  not  find  it  necessary  to  assume  some  motive  for 
Sebastian's  evasions,  and  for  his  unwillingness  that  this  anxious 
friend  should  keep  with  him  further  ?  (e)  What  do  you  imagine 
this  motive  is  ?  (/)  What  other  reason  (11.  40-43)  than  grief 
brings  Sebastian  near  to  tears  ?  (g)  What  is  the  purpose  of 
this  scene  ? 

SCENE   II 

I  (a)  Do  you  think  Malvolio  has  '  run '  after  Viola,  as 
bidden  by  his  mistress  ?  (d)  Do  you  find  Viola  (11.  3,  4)  inso- 
lent to  Olivia's  servant  ?  (c)  What  do  you  say  (11.  5-7)  of  Mal- 
volio's  scolding  ?  What  tone  do  you  catch  in  it  ?  (d}  Why 
does  not  Malvolio  speak  (1.  11)  of  Viola's  returning  to-morrow, 
as  Olivia  bade  ?  (e)  Why  does  not  Viola  at  once  (1.  13)  deny 
that  she  left  a  ring  with  Olivia  ?     (/)  Whose  ring  does  Mal- 

394 


II.  Ill]  TWELFTH  NIGHT  395 

volio  think  he  is  throwing  on  the  ground  ?  What  do  you  say 
of  his  excuse  for  doing  this  ?  Does  he  believe  that  Viola  threw 
it  to  his  mistress  ? 

2  (a)  Why  is  not  Viola  (1.  19)  well  satisfied  and  gleeful  that 
her  rival  is  falling  in  love  with  her?  (^b)  What  does  this  signify 
concerning  the  character  of  the  present  heroine  ?  {c)  Do  you 
think  it  too  much  that  Shakespeare  makes  her  pity  Olivia  ? 
(</)  Why  does  she  now  regret  (11.  28,  29)  the  disguise  she 
wears  ?  (^)  What  do  you  say  too  (11.  30-33)  of  her  insight  and 
her  philosophising  ? 

3  (a)  Why  is  not  Viola  worried  about  the  outcome  of  her 
affection  for  the  Duke  ?  {b)  Why  is  she  not  confident  ? 
(c)  If  Olivia  could  be  made  to  conceive  a  proper  and  sufficient 
fondness  for  the  Duke,  what  would  be  Viola's  attitude  and  feel- 
ing ?  {d)  What  plans,  now  that  there  can  be  no  affection  be- 
tween the  Duke  and  her  rival,  does  she  begin  to  frame  for  her 
own  profit  ?  ((?)  Is  this  scene  tragical  or  comedial  ?  (/)  What 
purpose  or  purposes  does  it  serve  ? 

SCENE   III 

1  (<z)  Why  does  the  author  take  the  trouble  to  bring  out 
(11.  1-5)  that  Sir  Toby  has  had  some  schooling,  but  Sir  Andrew, 
not  ?  (^b)  Where  have  these  roysterers  been  keeping  late  hours 
together  hitherto  ?  {c)  How  is  it  that  they  are  carousing  to-night 
in  Olivia's  house,  and  with  Olivia's  wine  ?  {d)  Does  it  appear 
that  the  Clown  has  been  trying  (11.  22-25)  to  improve  the  qual- 
ity of  his  work  ?  {e)  What  do  you  say  of  the  stanzas  (11.  40-45 
and  48-53)  sung  by  the  Clown  ?  Are  they  more  coarse  or  less 
coarse  than  would  seem  fitting  to  the  scene  ? 

2  (a)  Why  does  Maria  (1.  76)  appear  ?  {b)  Why  does  she 
stay  ?  (£•)  In  whose  name  does  Malvolio  (11.  93-99)  administer 
his  rebuke  ?  {d)  What  do  you  say  of  a  lady  that  (11.  102-108) 
sends  a  servant  to  give  her  uncle  notice  ?  {e)  Do  you  think 
(11.  128-129)  that  Malvolio  neglects  his  badge  of  office  ? 
(/)  Why  is  Maria  not  concerned  (11.  132,  135)  at  Malvolio's 
threat  ? 

3  {a)  Do  you  think  that  Olivia  (II.  143,  144)  is  more  exact- 
ing, or  less,  than  hitherto  ?     (b)  What  does  Maria  mean  (11.  151, 


396  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [H.  in 

152)  in  saying  that  Malvolio  is  sometimes  a  kind  of  Puritan  ? 
Have  you  seen  any  signs  of  pietism  in  his  talk  or  actions  ?  Does 
Maria  (11.  159,  160)  give  final  testimony  of  a  convincing  sort  ? 
{c)  Why  has  the  author  been  at  such  pains  to  establish  motives 
for  the  trick  to  be  played  upon  Malvolio  ?  (</)  Has  Maria 
brought  the  fresh  liquor  lately  called  for  ?  (<?)  What  is  the 
ground  of  her  confidence  that  (11.  190,  191)  there  shall  be  no 
more  disturbance  to-night  ? 

4  {a)  Why  does  the  author  make  Sir  Andrew  (1.  197)  boast 
of  his  past?  {b)  Why  should  so  much  amorous  endeavour,  in 
Maria's  wooing  of  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew's  hopeless  tarrying 
for  Olivia,  accompany  the  main  course  of  the  plot?  (^)  What 
becomes  (1.  199)  of  Sir  Andrew's  money?  (^)  Why  did  Sir 
Toby  propose  (1.  198)  to  give  up  for  the  night?  {e)  Why  does 
he  resolve  differently  (1.  207)  at  last?  (/)  Where  do  the  knights 
go  to  burn  (1.  206)  the  sack?  (^)  Why  is  not  the  Clown,  after 
Malvolio's  exit,  heard  from? 

SCENE   IV 

1  {a)  At  what  time  of  the  day  does  this  scene  open  ? 
(J))  Where  is  the  Duke  entering  from?  {c)  Why  should  he 
preface  (11.  i,  2)  his  greeting  and  his  request  by  'now'?  And 
is  there  anything  to  be  remarked  about  the  Duke's  calling  for 
music  at  such  an  hour?  {d)  Why  is  it  Curio  (1.  8),  and  not 
Cassario,  who  answers?  {e)  How  does  the  Clown  chance  to  be 
on  hand  at  this  time?  Has  he  passed  the  night  in  the  Duke's 
palace  ? 

2  {a)  Is  it  or  is  it  not  significant  that  the  Duke  should  wish 
(11.  15-20)  to  talk  to  Viola  as  a  companion,  not  a  servant,  while 
the  Clown  is  sought?  {U)  Why  does  the  Duke,  or  Shakespeare 
rather,  have  music  play  during  these  moments?  {c)  Do  the 
feminine  influences  of  Viola  seem  or  not  seem  to  have  touched 
the  Duke  more  nearly  than  when  we  last  saw  them  together? 
{d~)  How  far  does  the  situation,  or  the  Duke's  talk,  appear  to 
arouse  Viola  to  demonstrativeness?  What  in  her  speaking  seems 
to  impress  the  Duke  (1.  23)  as  'masterly'?  (<?)  Why  does  she 
indulge  herself  (11.  25,  29)  in  equivocal  answers?  Is  it  for 
cunning,  or  the  comfort  of  veiled  confession  ? 


II.  IV]  TWELFTH   NIGHT  397 

3  (a)  Does  the  Duke  (!.  28)  appear  to  recognise  that  Viola 
is  devoid  of  rantc?  How  far  is  the  utterance  mere  compliment? 
(d)    How    much    older    is    the    Duke,   seemingly,    than    Viola? 

(c)  Why  should  he  speak  (1.  30)  with  such  emphasis  at  the 
notion  of  a  mere  page  enamoured  of  a  woman  of  greater  years? 
And  what  do  you  say  (11.  31-36)  of  the  after  observations  ?  What 
do  they  argue  about  the  man?  (d)  Why  should  the  Duke 
(I.  44)  prefer  the  Clown's  singing  to  Viola's?  (e)  Is  it  clear 
that  Viola  has  presented  herself  as  (I.  ii.  56)  a  eunuch,  according 
to  her  plan  ? 

4  (a)  In  how  far  does  the  Clown's  song  here  resemble  the 
one  rendered  in  the  last  scene?  (d)  What  influence,  with 
reference  to  the  rather  tender  sentiments  of  the  present  situation, 
has  the  last  scene  exerted  upon  us?  (c)  Why  has  the  author 
been  at  such  pains  to  bring  in  this  singing  from  Olivia's  jester? 

(d)  Why  does  the  Duke  wish  (1.  82)  Curio  and  the  attendants 
to  withdraw,  while  he  commissions  Viola,  whereas  (I.  iv)  these 
were  all  present  before?  (e)  Why  should  the  Duke  be  more 
ready  to  send  to  Olivia  now  than  before  the  talk  to  Viola  and 
the  singing?  Why  does  he  refer  (II.  86,  87)  to  Olivia's  wealth, 
since  it  is  inferior  to  his  own? 

5  (a)  What  feelings  seem  (11.  91-95)  to  be  uppermost  in 
Viola's  mind?  How  far  is  self-interest,  how  far  is  motherly  con- 
sideration, the  controlling  motive?  (d)  What  do  you  say  (II. 
96-106)  of  Orsino's  next  deliverance,  as  in  comparison  with 
preceding  ones?  (c)  Does  the  Duke  (1.  106)  interrupt  Viola? 
(d)  Is  her  meaning  when  finished  what  she  began  to  say?  Has 
anything  like  this  happened  in  her  speech  before?  (e)  Do  you 
think  she  has  any  expectation  that  her  meaning  (11.  110-118) 
may  in  some  way  be  divined?  (/)  Does  what  she  here  says 
seem  consistent  with  the  view  that  Orsino  was  a  stranger  when 
her  service  to  him  began?  (^)  Why  does  not  Shakespeare 
make  the  antecedent  circumstances,  as  in  the  play  of  GP  Ingati- 
nati,  clearer? 

6  {a)  Do  you  think  Viola  expects,  or  not,  such  a  question 
(1.  122)  as  now  follows?  {b)  Do  you  think  that  she  has  spoken 
to  any  one  here  (1.  124)  about  Sebastian?  {c)  Why  does  she 
(I.  125)  change  the  subject,  which  she  has  herself  introduced,  so 


398  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [II.  iv 

abruptly?  (d)  What  of  comedy  do  you  find  in  this  scene,  and 
of  what  sort?  (i?)  Do  you  find  other  than  comedial  elements 
here  ?  (/")  What  new  impressions  have  you  of  Viola? 
{g)  What  seems  to  have  been  the  purpose  of  this  scene? 

SCENE  V 

1  (a)  Has  Fabian  been  presented  to  us  before?  {b)  Why 
does  Sir  Toby  (1.  6)  think  Malvolio  niggardly?  (<:)  For  whose 
entertainment  is  Maria  managing  her  trick,  and  with  what  motive? 
(^)  What  does  she  mean  (11.  20,  21)  that  Malvolio  has  been 
doing?  {e)  Why,  apparently,  does  the  author  make  Malvolio 
(11.  27-33)  soliloquise  about  his  ^fortune,'  in  advance? 

2  (a)  How  far  does  it  seem  necessary  to  have  Malvolio 
arouse  the  wrath  of  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew  ?  {b)  Why  is 
Fabian  so  anxious  lest  they  be  overheard?  Why  is  Maria  made 
to  withdraw?  {c)  How  has  Olivia  seemed  to  her  steward,  that 
he  can  suppose  the  communication  hers?  (</)  Is  it  or  is  it  not 
remarkable  that  Maria  has  devised  and  executed  so  good  a 
counterfeit  ?  How  has  she  gained  her  accomplishments  ? 
{e)  What  prospects  or  possibilities  has,  seemingly,  Sir  Toby,  in 
the  author's  thought,  to  engage  her  machinations?  (/")  How 
much  younger  than  Sir  Toby  is,  apparently,  his  niece? 

3  {a)  Why  do  not  Maria  and  the  knights  realise  the  risk  of 
counterfeiting  a  'declaration'  from  the  mistress  of  the  establish- 
ment? {b)  How  can  the  author  avert  the  consequences  of  it 
from  these  persons?  (c)  Do  you  consider  Sir  Toby's  enthusiasm 
(1.  206)  genuine?  (rf)  What  of  the  resources  of  imagination 
(11.  207,  210)  shown  by  Sir  Andrew  in  his  excited  state  of  mind? 
(^)  How  should  the  author  think  it  necessary  to  make  us  know, 
by  Maria,  beforehand,  how  Malvolio  will  behave?  (/)  Why 
should  such  a  scene  as  this  be  put  after  such  a  scene  as  the 
preceding? 

4  {a)  How  does  Maria,  in  her  pursuit  of  Sir  Toby,  help  Viola 
with  us  in  her  hopes  and  purpose?  (<J)  What  difference  would 
it  make,  in  our  feelings  toward  Viola,  if  the  Duke  were  wooing 
Olivia,  in  presence,  after  a  virile  fashion?  (c)  How  far  would 
Olivia  be  capable,  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances,  of 


II.  V]  TWELFTH  NIGHT  399 

appreciating  the  Duke's  intelligence  and  worth  ?  {d)  How  much 
harm  does  Olivia's  rejection  do  the  Duke  with  us?  (6')  If  Mal- 
volio's  ineffectual  presumption  were  removed  from  the  play,  what 
character,  besides  Olivia,  would  suifer?  (/")  For  the  sake  of 
which  character  was  the  play  composed? 


ACT   III 


SCENE  I 


1  (a)  Does  it  seem  that  Viola  recognises  this  Feste,  her  late 
rival  in  singing  before  the  Duke?  (d)  Is  it  the  habit  of  this- 
Fool  (11.  6,  7)  to  explain  in  detail  his  jokes?  (c)  Comparing 
his  utterances  here  with  what  he  (I.  v.)  has  been  saying  to 
his  mistress,  do  you  find  him  inclined,  or  not  inclined,  to  spare 
the  Duke's  messenger?  (d)  Do  you  find  any  suggestion 
(11  44-46)  of  a  motive?  (e)  What  is  the  Clown's  temper  and 
meaning  (11.  63-65)  in  his  last  words? 

2  (a)  How  far  is  Viola's  mind  preoccupied  (11.  67-75)  ^i*^ 
her  personal  troubles  ?  (d)  Can  you  see  any  reason  why  she  is 
made  to  pronounce  this  soliloquy  here?  (c)  Where  do  Sir  Toby 
and  Sir  Andrew  come  from  ?  Do  they  or  do  they  not  still  show 
effects  of  burning  sack?  (d)  What  do  you  say  of  Viola's  success 
in  playing  a  man's  part  in  their  presence?  Does  she  seem  or 
not  seem  to  improve  in  her  assumed  role? 

3  (a)  Do  you  think  that  Viola  is  trying  (11.  95,  96)  to  cap- 
tivate Olivia  yet  more?  (i>)  What  do  you  say  (11.  103,  104: 
'leave  me  to  my  hearing')  of  the  impression  Olivia  must  be 
making  upon  her  people?  Has  she  put  on  her  veil?  (c)  Why 
does  Olivia  ask  (1.  107)  Viola's  name?  (d)  Why  does  Viola 
affect  humility  ?  How  would  her  woman's  feeling  naturally 
prompt  her  to  behave?  (e)  Why  does  Viola  betray  (1.  121)  so 
quickly  that  she  comprehends?  What  probably  would  a  man 
have  done?  (/)  What  do  you  say  (II.  122-133)  of  Olivia's 
more  explicit  declaration?  Is  it  unseemly?  Does  it  seem  like 
Olivia?  (g)  How  far  was  it  once  considered  permissible  for  a 
lady  like  Olivia  to  make  advances  to  one  beneath  her  rank? 

4  (a)  What  do  you  say  (1.  134)  of  Viola's  scrupulous  truth- 
fulness to  her  rival  ?  (d)  What  does  Olivia  (1.  138)  apparently 
think  is  the  reason  for  the  unresponsiveness  of  this  page  ? 
(c)  What  is  the  dramatic  use   (1.  140)   of  the  striking  of  the 

400 


III.  Ill]  TWELFTH   NIGHT  4OI 

clock  ?  (^)  What  is  Olivia's  point  in  preferring  the  Hon  to  the 
wolf?  (e)  Why  does  Olivia  (1.  142)  so  foolishly  attempt  to 
unsay  herself?  (/)  What  is  the  eflfect  of  the  utterance,  as  a 
whole,  upon  Viola?  (g)  Does  it  seem  (1.  148)  that  Viola  has 
given  Olivia  the  jewel  (11.  iv.  126)  sent  by  the  Duke  ? 

5  (a)  What  prompts  (1.  150)  Olivia's  question  ?  What  does 
she  hope  to  eUcit  ?  (<^)  What  do  you  say  of  Viola's  answer  ? 
Why  is  she  not  more  pointed  ?  (c)  What  does  Olivia  mean  in 
her  reply?  (d)  In  what  sense  does  Viola  (1.  156)  use  'fool'  ? 
(e)  How  far  do  you  think  Viola  feels  (11.  157,  158)  the  emotions 
that  Olivia  thinks  she  reads  ? 

6  (a)  Can    you    account    for    the   outbreak  that    follows  ? 

(d)  What  is  your  feeling  toward  Olivia  here  ?  (t)  What  do  you 
think  was  the  look,  the  manner  of  Viola,  as  (11.  169-174)  she  re- 
plies, judging  from  the  effect  upon  Olivia  ?  (d)  Why  does  not 
Olivia  attempt  to  detain  her,  or  to  continue  the  conversation  ? 

(e)  Are  we  to  judge  anything,  from  Olivia's  admission  in  the  last 
line  of  the  scene,  as  to  what  she  thinks  now  of  the  messenger  ? 
(/)  Has  or  has  not  Viola  done  her  duty  in  trying  to  speed  her 
master's  suit  ? 

SCENE  II 

1  (a)  What  is  the  time  of  this  scene  with  reference  to  the 
last  one  ?  (d)  Of  what  use  here  (11.  4,  5)  is  Fabian  ?  (c)  What 
'favours'  has  Olivia  bestowed  upon  Sir  Andrew  ?  (d)  Do  you 
think  Olivia  did  (1.  11)  see  Sir  Andrew  ?  (e)  What  has  Olivia 
done  to  Viola  that  Sir  Andrew  considers  favours  ? 

2  (a)  Why  is  Fabian  shown  (11.  19-31)  talking  thus  against 
his  mistress  ?  (^)  What  do  you  say  of  the  evolving  of  the  chal- 
lenge ?  (c)  Why  does  Fabian  expect  that  (1.  61)  the  letter  will 
not  reach  Viola  ?  (d)  Why  does  the  author  make  Maria  tell  in 
details  how  Malvolio  looks  ?  (<?)  Do  you  think  that  Olivia  (1. 88), 
were  it  not  for  her  troubles,  would  strike  him  ?  (/)  What  is 
the  purpose  of  this  scene  ? 

SCENE   III 

I    (a)  Has  Antonio  been  complying  (1.  4)  with  Sebastian's 
wish  ?     Why  ?     (/>)  Where  are  these  men  now,  and  how  long  is 
2  D 


402  WHAT  IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [HI.  iii 

it  since  we  last  saw  them  ?  (c)  Has  Sebastian  apparently  yet 
visited  Orsino's  court  ?  (d)  Does  he  or  does  he  not  seem 
minded  to  take  Antonio  with  him  thither  ?  (e)  Why  is  Sebas- 
tian so  evasive  about  his  place  of  lodging  ? 

2  (a)  Is  Antonio  (11.  26,  27)  a  citizen  of  Illyria  ?  (d)  What 
(1.  35)  is  Antonio's  offence  ?  (c)  Why  does  he  insist  (1.  38)  on 
leaving  with  Sebastian  his  purse  ?  (d)  Why  does  he  propose 
the  place  of  lodging  ?  (e)  Is  this  attachment  of  Antonio  for 
Sebastian,  being  thoroughly  un-Saxon,  reasonable  and  credible 
here  ? 

SCENE  IV 

1  (a)  Why  did  not  Olivia  detain  Viola,  when  she  was  with 
her,  rather  than  try  to  induce  her  to  return  ?  (b)  How  does 
Olivia  (11.  5-7)  think  to  use  Malvolio  ?  (c)  How  is  it  that  Olivia 
is  more  tolerant  of  Malvolio  than  of  the  Duke  ?  (d)  What  does 
/lo,  ho  (1.  18)  indicate  ?  {e)  What  words  in  (11.  26,  27)  Olivia's 
second  reply  ?  (/)  What  is  evidently  (1.  32)  her  notion  as  to 
the  cause  of  this  strange  behaviour  ? 

2  {a)  Why  does  Maria  (11.  37,  40)  work  herself  into  the 
situation  ?  Why  is  her  mistress  silent  ?  (b)  How  must  Mal- 
volio have  accounted  for  his  mistress's  surprise  ?  ic)  How  do 
you  like  Olivia  in  this  dialogue  ?  Is  the  sum  of  your  impressions 
of  her  altered  ?  {d^  Do  you  think  the  author  is  preparing,  by 
what  he  gives  us  here,  to  bring  Viola  and  Olivia  together  again, 
or  is  it  for  some  other  comedial  action  ?  {e)  What  would 
Olivia  have  done  (1.  67),  apparently,  if  she  had  not  been  called 
away  ?     Why  does  she  think  of '  cousin  '  Toby  now  ? 

3  {a)  What  do  you  say  (11.  71-92)  of  Malvolio's  soliloquy  ? 
How  far  are  you  anxious,  now,  as  to  what  may  happen  to  him  ? 
{b)  Is  Sir  Toby  (11.  93-96)  in  earnest  or  pretending  ?  (c)  In 
what  does  the  comedy  of  the  dialogue  following  consist  ? 
{d)  Who  will  force  (11.  148,  149)  Malvolio  into  the  dark  room 
and  bind  him  ?  {e)  How  does  Fabian  (1.  156)  know  that  more 
fun  is  coming  ? 

4  {a)  Why  has  the  Clown  given  place  to  Fabian  in  these 
situations  ?  How  do  Fabian  and  Feste  differ  ?  (<J)  Why  does 
not  Sir  Toby  think  best,  after  all,  to  give  the  letter  to  Viola  ? 


III.  V]  TWELFTH   NIGHT  403 

Do  you  think  he  explains,  fully,  in  (11.  202-208)  what  he  says  to 
the  others  ?  (c)  Does  Olivia  seem  to  have  invited  Viola 
(11.  221-237)  to  stay  for  feasting  ?  (d)  What  do  you  imagine 
has  been  the  current  of  conversation  between  these  before  we 
overhear  ?  (e)  Why  does  Viola  appear  so  changed  .''  Will 
she  wear  (1.  228)  Olivia's  jewel  ? 

5  (a)  What  do  you  say  (11.  240-246)  of  Sir  Toby's  chal- 
lenge ?  Does  he  seem,  or  not  seem,  to  have  associated  with 
people  of  breeding  at  some  time  hitherto  ?  (d)  What  do  you 
say  of  Viola's  responding  paragraphs  ?  How  far  do  they  seem 
masculine,  how  far  the  utterances  of  a  woman  ?  (c)  What  kind 
of  comedy  have  we  here  ?  (d)  Why  should  Shakespeare  have 
a  knight  (11.  318-319)  so  imposed  upon  ?  (e)  Do  you  think 
that  Fabian  tells  (11.  322-324)  the  truth  about  Viola  ?  (/)  Do 
you  think  the  author  creates  the  ensuing  situation  between  Viola 
and  Sir  Andrew  for  the  sake  of  the  comedy  we  see  in  it,  or  to 
enable  (1.  342)  Antonio's  interference  ? 

6  (a)  How  are  we  to  explain  Antonio's  being  or  coming 
here  ?  (d)  What  do  you  say  (11.  354,  355)  of  Viola's  request 
to  Andrew  ?  (^)  What  does  Antonio  mean  in  (1.  366)  '  with 
seeking  you '  ?  (d)  Do  you  regard  the  misunderstanding  now 
occasioned  here,  between  Antonio  and  Viola,  as  comedial  .'' 
(e)  Why  does  the  author  carry  the  matter  (11.  388-391  and 
393-397)  so  far  ? 

7  (a)  What  do  you  say  of  Viola's  repose  and  self-possession 
here  ?  (d)  What  is  (1.  406)  evidently  Antonio's  mood  ? 
(c)  Why  does  not  Viola  ask,  as  many  women  would  have  done, 
and  excitedly,  too,  about  Sebastian  ?  (</)  Does  or  does  not 
Viola  show  Anglo-Saxon  peculiarities  of  mind  and  nature  ? 
(e)  Which  among  the  characters  so  far  considered  in  this  vol- 
ume does  she  most  resemble  ?  (/")  How  does  the  author  get 
Viola  away  without  the  necessity  of  speech  to  Sir  Toby  and  his 
friends  ? 


ACT  IV 


SCENE   I 


1  (a)  How  has  Sir  Andrew  missed  Viola  ?  (d)  How  does 
Sebastian  chance  to  be  passing  ?  (c)  How  is  it  that  Olivia  (1.  6) 
has  sent  after  Viola  again  ?  (</)  How  does  this  character  on 
the  whole  sustain  the  sacrifices  that  the  author  has  been  forced 
to  make  of  it  as  a  role  ?  (e)  What  does  the  Clown  suppose  that 
the  supposed  Caesario  (1.  20)  gives  him  money  for  ?  (/")  How 
far  does  Sebastian  speak  and  act  like  his  sister  ? 

2  (a)  What  does  Sir  Andrew  (1.  27)  strike  Sebastian  with  ? 
(d)  With  what  does  Sebastian  (1.  30)  apparently  strike  Sir 
Andrew  in  return  ?  (c)  Why  has  the  Clown  put  himself  on  the 
side  opposite  (1.  32)  to  those  that  he  has  sided  with  hitherto  ? 
(d)  What  (1.  34)  is  Sir  Toby  doing  ?  (e)  What  (11.  47-49)  is 
Sir  Toby's  opinion  of  his  skill  with  the  rapier  ?  In  what  attitude 
does  Olivia  find  him  ? 

3  (a)  What  signifies  Olivia's  way  of  addressing  (1.  49)  her 
uncle?  Why  is  it  not  'cousin'  Toby?  (d)  Why  does  Olivia 
(1.  51)  ask  if  it  shall  be  'ever'  thus?  What  must  have  been  the 
'fruitless  pranks'  (1.  59)  that  she  speaks  of?  (c)  Why  cannot 
Sebastian  imagine  (1.  65)  that  some  one  else  may  be  mad  besides 
himself?  (d)  Is  it  natural  that  a  man  of  Sebastian's  birth  and 
breeding  should  follow  Olivia  so  passively?  (e)  What  sort  of 
comedy  is  this? 

SCENE   II 

I  (a)  Why  should  Maria  (11.  1-4)  wish  to  carry  the  joke 
further?  (d)  Where  did  Sir  Toby  go  after  being  sent  away  by 
his  niece?  And  why  is  not  Sir  Andrew  with  him?  (c)  How  far 
is  there  satire  in  this  use  of  the  character  of  Sir  Topas  ?  (d)  How 
should  Maria  be  equal  (1.  70)  to  providing  a  priest's  gown  and  a 
false  beard  so  readily?  How  must  Shakespeare  have  conceived 
her?  (e)  Why  has  not  Sir  Toby  found,  at  least  since  1.  31,  the 
diversion  that  Maria  expected?  (/)  What  signs  of  a  maudlin 
consciousness  have  we  noted  of  late  in  Sir  Toby  ? 

404 


IV.  Ill]  TWELFTH  NIGHT  405 

2  (a)  Why  does  Sir  Toby  wish  (11.  71-77)  a  formal  report  of 
Malvolio's  condition,  and  one  rendered  to  him  in  his  chamber, 
from  the  Clown?  (d)  Why  does  the  author  permit  or  insure 
such  delay  in  our  knowing  the  outcome  of  Sebastian's  being 
drawn  by  Olivia  into  her  palace  ?  (c)  What  tempts  the  Clown 
(11.  102-109)  to  play  his  double  part?  Why  does  the  author  in- 
troduce anything  so  farcical?  (d)  How  far  do  you  think  the 
Clown  is  influenced,  in  (1.  121)  his  promise,  by  what  (11.  72-74) 
he  has  heard  Sir  Toby  say?  (e)  What  are  your  feelings  toward 
Malvolio  now?  (/)  What  purposes  has  this  scene  been  made 
to  serve? 

SCENE  in 

1  (a)  What  words  in  the  first  line  have  stress?  (6)  Why 
did  Shakespeare  need  somebody  to  stand  recipient,  in  Viola's 
place,  of  Olivia's  affection?  Why  does  he  not  leave  Olivia,  whom 
he  has  used  for  plot  purposes  so  unreverently,  lorn?  (c)  What 
are  your  impressions  of  Sebastian,  who  calls  Olivia's  impetuous 
suit  to  him  (1.  11)  a  'flood  of  fortune,'  in  comparison  with  his 
sister?  Does  or  does  not  the  author  seem  to  care  much  for  this 
character?  (d)  Has  Olivia  appeared  to  Sebastian  as  more  potent 
and  effective  (1.  17),  in  controlling  her  affairs  and  people,  or  less 
efficient  and  strong,  than  we  have  found  her? 

2  (a)  Would  our  feelings,  if  Olivia  had  proposed  (1.  26)  the 
final  ceremony,  have  been  the  same  or  not  the  same  as  now? 
(d)  How  far  was  the  precontract,  here  proposed  by  Olivia,  less 
binding?  (c)  Do  you  think  that  what  Olivia  does  would  strike 
an  audience  in  Shakespeare's  time  differently  from  a  modern 
one?  (d)  Do  you  think  Viola  could  have  been  capable  of  such 
a  course  as  this  with  the  Duke?  (e)  How  is  it  to  be  explained 
that  Olivia,  who  would  be  considered  more  modest  and  retiring 
than  Viola,  has  been  brought  into  such  a  r61e?  Is  the  human 
nature  here  correct? 


ACT  V 


SCENE  I 


1  (a)  Why  does  not  Fabian  (1.  6)  wish  to  make  Malvolio's 
letter,  as  he  would  have  done  earlier,  a  matter  of  common  know- 
ledge? (d)  Has  Viola  been  back  at  the  Duke's  palace  since 
leaving  here?  (c)  What  has,  at  last,  drawn  out  the  Duke  to 
come  to  Olivia's  home  in  person?  (d)  Why  does  the  author 
allow,  by  (11.  9-52)  the  Duke's  talk  with  the  Clown,  so  much  de- 
lay? {e)  How  is  it  to  be  explained  that  (1.  53)  the  Officers  bring 
Antonio  here? 

2  (a)  What  do  you  say  of  the  intellectual  and  executive  suffi- 
ciency shown  (11.  54-62)  in  the  Duke's  paragraph  to  his  officer? 
How  far  does  the  Duke  seem  the  same  as  in  former  scenes? 
(d)  How  far  does  he  appear  (11.  72-75)  anxious  to  recognise  the 
kindness  done  to  his  page?  (c)  Does  (1.  100)  the  Countess  hear 
the  Duke's  words  about  her?  (d)  What  signifies  Olivia's  ad- 
dressing her  visitor  (1.  104)  before  he  has  paid  his  respects  to 
her?  (e)  What  does  she  mean  (1.  106)  by  her  first  words  to 
Caesario  ? 

3  (a)  Why  does  the  author  make  Olivia  (1.  109)  uncivil  to 
the  Duke,  who  is  also  governor  and  master  of  the  state  ?  (d)  Why 
doesOliviathinkit  necessary  (11.  II  i-i  13)  to  be  uncivil?  (c)  How 
has  the  Duke  (11.  125,  128)  found  out  Olivia's  fondness  for  Cae- 
sario ?  Has  Viola  betrayed  it  ?  Has  the  Clown,  or  who  ?  (d)  Why 
does  Viola  (11.  145,  146)  follow  the  Duke  so  willingly?  Would 
an  Anglo-Saxon  Viola  have  done  so?  (e)  Do  you  think  she  in- 
tends to  reveal  her  identity  to  the  Duke?  (/)  Does  the  Duke 
(11.  137-139)  hear  her  confession?  Why  does  she  make  it  to 
Olivia's  ears? 

4  (a)  How  does  Viola  probably  explain  (1.  147)  Olivia's 
claims?  (d)  Why  is  she  not  more  aroused?  (c)  How  can 
Olivia  say  (1.  153)  'as  great  as  that  thou  fear'st'?  (d)  Why  is 
not  Viola  (1.  173)  even  yet  dismayed?     (e)  What  is  significant 

406 


V.  I]  TWELFTH  NIGHT  407 

in  (1.  178)  Sir  Andrew's  saying  '  he'  instead  of  giving  any  name? 
(/■)  What  is  the  use  (I.  187)  of  such  a  farcical  turn  just  here? 

5  (a)  How  does  the  Duke  know  (I.  199)  that  Sir  Toby  is  a 
gentleman?  ((^)  Does  Sir  Toby  seem  intoxicated  here?  (f)  Why 
does  he  use  (11.  212-214)  such  plain  language  to  his  friend? 
(^)  Where  had  the  knights  set  upon  Sebastian,  and  upon  what 
occasion?  (e)  What  must  have  been  the  effect  (1.  223)  of  seeing 
another  Viola  appear?  Why  does  not  Olivia  speak?  How  soon 
does  anybody  say  anything  ? 

6  (a)  Where  (1.  228),  in  Antonio's  question,  is  the  stress? 
(d)  Where  is  it  (1.  233)  in  Sebastian's  question?  (c)  Is  it  the 
brother  or  the  sister  that  seems  (11.  233-243)  the  more  aroused? 

(d)  What  do  you  say  (11.  256-260)  of  Viola's  withholding  her- 
self from  embracing  her  brother?  (e)  What  do  you  say  of  the 
diction  and  the  repose  of  this  paragraph  ? 

7  (a)  Why  is  not  Olivia  (11.  266-270)  heard  from  ?  (d)  How 
far  is  this  comedial,  and  according  to  what  idea  or  form  of  com- 
edy? (c)  What  do  you  say  (11.  276-279)  of  Viola's  words  to 
the  Duke?  Are  they  in  keeping?  (d)  Would  she  say  perhaps 
that  her  occasion  (I.  ii.  43)  is  now  mellow?  Does  she  seem  to 
have  had  faith  in  such  an  issue?  (e)  Why  does  the  author  de- 
vise means  (11.  281-284)  of  keeping  us  from  seeing  Viola  again, 
as  at  the  opening,  in  her  proper  clothing? 

8  (a)  Do  you  think  (1.  284)  that  Malvolio  wears  a  sword? 
(6)  Why  should  the  course  of  the  play  be  delayed  over  the  read- 
ing of  Malvolio's  letter?  (c)  Why  should  Malvolio  (1.  323)  be 
brought  in,  but  not  Maria?  (d)  What  is  the  author's  point 
(11.  324-328)  in   having   Olivia   make   her   offer  to   the   Duke? 

(e)  Why  is  the  Duke  (11.  322,  335)  taken  into  the  company  that 
shall  judge  Malvolio?  (/)  What  do  you  say  of  the  showing 
and  the  impression  (11.  338-363)  that  Malvolio  makes? 

9  (a)  What  in  (1.  377)  Olivia's  words  starts  Fabian  up? 
(i)  Does  Fabian  state  (11.  366-371)  the  responsibility  fairly  to 
himself?  (c)  Why  does  Shakespeare  make  Maria  to  have  achieved 
her  ends  already?  (d)  Why  does  the  author  wish  Malvolio  to 
be  absent  from  the  close?  How  does  the 'Clown's  quotation 
(11.  378-385)  insure  that?     (e)  Why  has  the  author  connected 


408  WHAT   IS   SHAKESPEARE  ?  [V.  I 

Malvolio  (11.  283,  390)  with  Viola's  benefactor?  (/")  Why  is 
not  Antonio  rewarded,  to  us,  for  his  Italian  devotion  to  Viola's 
brother?  (g)  Why  (11.  393,  394)  are  all  stayed  at  Olivia's  home? 
(//)  Does  there  seem  point  in  the  way  of  closing,  and  in  having 
such  a  clown  sing  such  a  song?  (/)  What  are  your  impressions 
as  to  the  meaning  of  this  play? 


INDEX 


All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  267. 

Antigonus,  amusing  to  the  half-insane 
Leontes,  127;  refuses  to  obey  the 
King,  127;  bidden  by  the  King  to 
expose  tlie  child,  128 ;  dreams  of 
the  Queen,  134;  poetic  justice  of 
his  death,  134. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra,  182,  270,  315. 

Apollo's  oracle,  appealed  to,  123; 
findings  of,  132;  impugned  by 
Leontes,  132. 

Arden,  Mary,  237,  238,  245,  270. 

Arden,  Robert,  237,  238,  240,  247. 

Arviragus,  an  Apollo  nature,  75,  77 ; 
comes  nearer  to  his  sister's  sympa- 
thies, 79;  sounds  the  harp,  81; 
determines  obsequies,  84  ;  resolves 
to  share  in  the  battle,  92 ;  resem- 
blance to  his  mother,  102. 

Aston  Cantlowe,  237,  240. 

Astrophel  and  Stella,  2.JI. 

As  you  Like  It,  256,  268,  325. 

Bacon  question,  281. 

Banquo,  as  Duncan's  chamberlain, 
203 ;  his  defection,  205  ;  not  awaked 
by  the  castle  bell,  210;  his  death 
required  by  the  plot,  212;  his  ene- 
mies, 214 ;  apparition  of,  raised  by 
the  Witches,  215 ;  the  apparition 
managed  so  as  to  ruin  Macbeth, 
216 ;  his  apparition  again  produced, 
219. 

Belarius,  intolerant  of  the  King's 
Latin  tastes,  65 ;  recognises  Clo- 
ten,  80;  kept  from  the  obsequies, 
84;  drawn  by  the  lads  into  the 
battle,  92 ;  helps  rescue  the  King, 
94. 

Benvolio,  151,  156,  177. 

Blackfriars  Theatre,  274. 

Brooke,  Romeus  and  Juliet  of,  149. 

Burbage,  Richard,  250,  255,  268,  274, 
276. 


Camillo,  kept  as  a  witness  of  the 
King's  bickering,  116;  his  consent 
to  poison  Polyxenes,  117;  a  dis- 
guised guest  at  the  festival,  144; 
captivated  by  Perdita,  145 ;  dis- 
loyal to  Polyxenes,  147. 

Capulet,  152,  156,  158,  179. 

Character  drawing,  art  ot,  153. 

Chettle,  Henry,  apology  of,  253. 

Chorus,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  160; 
in  The  Winter  s  Tale,  161. 

Cloten,  assaults  Posthunms,  17; 
belated  in  dissipation,  43;  calls 
Imogen  'sister,'  49;  embittered 
by  Imogen,  53 ;  puts  on  garments 
of  Posthumus,  71 ;  reaches  Wales, 
77;  slain  by  Guiderius,  80;  left  as 
in  burial  beside  Imogen,  86. 

Comedy  of  Errors,  260,  287. 

Cordelia,  304,  305,  306,  309,  310,  311, 
312. 

Coriolanus,  182,  270,  318. 

Cornelius,  gives  pretended  drugs  to 
Queen,  28 ;  disarms  fear  of  the 
audience,  29 ;  brings  court  ladies 
to  Wales,  96. 

Coventry,  240. 

Cromwell,    Thomas,    injunction    of, 

237- 

Cymbeline,  defies  Rome,  59;  has 
Latin  tastes,  65 ;  rescued  by  his 
sons  and  Posthumus,  94. 

Cymbeline,  use  of  the  two  Gentlemen 
in,  9  ;  maximum  consummation  in, 
184;  obstacles  in,  225;  subjective 
climax  in,  230;  date  of,  274;  place 
of,  287. 

Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  235. 

Davenant,  Sir  William,  250,  259, 
Donalbain,    aroused    by    the    bell, 

210. 
Doricles,  pseudonym  of  Florizel,  143. 
Droeshout,  Martin,  279. 


409 


410 


INDEX 


Droeshout  painting,  279. 

Duncan,  a  weak  personage,  185  ;  not 
presented  as  in  Holinshed,  igo; 
like  Polonius,  192 ;  fails  to  reward 
Macbeth,  199;  is  unsuspicious, 
201 ;  brought  to  Macbeth's  castle, 
203 ;  of  the  Edward  Confessor 
type,  222. 

Dunsinane,  224. 

Edward  the  Confessor,  not  an  effi- 
cient ruler,  222 ;  type  of,  used  to 
assist  Malcolm,  222. 

Emerson,  quoted  from,  131. 

Euriphile,  not  mentioned  in  the  fu- 
neral song,  85  n. 

Evan  Harrington,  232. 

Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  255,  264. 

First  Act,  proper  ending  of,  205. 
First  Folio,  14,  184, 189,  227,  255,  279, 

280,  285. 
First   Lord,   serves  as   the   reader's 

proxy,  123  ;  demands  the  response 

from  Delphi,  132. 
First  Witch,  wrecks  a  ship,  195 ;  as 

Norn  of  the  Past,  196. 
Fleance,  pursued,  214. 
Folios,  Second,  Third,  and  Fourth, 

280. 
Fourth  Act,  a  preparing  time,  223. 
Free  Grammar  School,  of  Stratford, 

242. 

Gertrude,  Hamlet's  mother,  re- 
deemed by  Shakespeare,  291 ; 
restored  to  her  son,  299;  prevari- 
cates to  the  King  in  his  behalf,  301 ; 
drinks  to  his  success,  301. 

Ghost  of  Hamlet  the  Elder,  return 
of,  297  ;  his  forgiveness  of  Gertrude, 
298. 

Globe  Shakespeare ,  14  n. 

Globe  Theatre,  267,  275. 

Goneril,  304,  305,  306,  307,  308,  309, 
310. 

Greene,  Robert,  responsible  for  the 
appeal  to  Delphi,  124;  his  mention 
of  a  jury  not  borrowed,  129  ;  attack 
of,  on  Shakespeare,  251. 

Guiderius,  more  active  and  martial 
of  the  brothers,  73;  like  his  sister, 
75;  kills  Cloten,  80;  determines 
the  place  of  burial,  84 ;  drawn  by 


Arviragus  into  the  battle,  92 ;  aids 
in  rescue  of  King,  94. 

Hall,  Dr.  John,  270,  278. 

Hall,  Elizabeth,  280. 

Hamlet,  scruples  of,  290;  drastic  use 
of,  for  artistic  ends,  294,  301 ;  trusts 
again  his  mother,  300 ;  his  soliloquy 
over  campaign  of  Fortinbras,  302; 
magnificent  in  action,  302. 

Hamlet,  256,  269,  288,  290. 

Hathaway,  Anne,  246,  248,  276,  280. 

Hemmings,  John,  274,  276,  280. 

Henry  I V,  First  Fait  of,  263. 

Henry  V,  267,  287. 

Henry  VI,  Third  Part  of,  252. 

Henry  VIII,  '2j\,  275. 

Hermione,  called  on  by  the  King  to 
keep  his  friend  from  going,  112; 
offers  an  excuse  for  her  hushtand, 
114;  draws  Polyxenes  aside,  115; 
her  sorrow  for  her  husband,  121  ; 
her  faith  in  the  right,  122,  130;  the 
womanliness  of  her  part,  131 ;  un- 
aroused  by  the  response,  and  the 
death  of  Mamillius,  133;  swoons 
at  her  husband's  confession,  133 ; 
compared  with  Imogen,  134;  the 
secret  of  her  power,  135. 

Holinshed,  185,  186,  187,  190,  191, 
199,  212,  213,  219,  312. 

lachimo,  lies  in  wait  for  Posthumus, 
22;  outwits  him,  27;  in  awe  of 
Imogen,  34 ;  his  strategy  of  the 
trunk,  41 ;  his  fear  in  Imogen's 
chamber,  46;  exasperates  Posthu- 
mus, 55 ;  drawn  into  the  British 
wars,  77 ;  conscience  of,  aroused, 
93;  confesses  to  Imogen,  99. 

Imogen,  repose  of,  11;  objectiveness 
of,  19;  influence  of,  on  lachimo, 
34;  deceived  by  the  strategy  of  the 
trunk,  41 ;  a  reader,  43  ;  made  ca- 
pable of  embittering  Cloten,  52; 
lured  away  from  court,  62 ;  willing 
to  go  to  Italy,  69;  her  supposed 
death,  81 ;  willing  to  go  away  from 
the  supposed  grave  of  her  hus- 
band, 88 ;  refuses  to  save  Lucius, 
98 ;  sorrows  for  her  father's  loss, 
102;  her  character,  105;  compared 
to  Hermione,  134. 

Incident  plays,  287. 

Interpretation  of  a  play,  5. 


INDEX 


411 


Jonson,  Ben,  255,  263,  279,  285. 

Juliet,  age  of,  153 ;  promises  to  be 
dutiful,  155  ;  discerns  Romeo's  na- 
ture, 158  ;  of  Gothic  temperament, 
160 ;  gives  up  her  hate  of  the 
Montagues,  166;  her  matter-of-fact 
mind,  167;  plans  for  herself  and 
Romeo,  168;  her  faith,  170;  for- 
gets to  arrange,  with  Romeo,  the 
hour,  172 ;  an  I  mogen-nature,  175  ; 
power  of,  over  Shakespeare's  au- 
diences, 175  ;  tries  to  confess  to  her 
father,  179;  accepts  deatli,  in  ef- 
fect, for  Romeo's  honour,  179; 
does  not  ask  for  reasons,  180. 

Julius  Ccssar,  288,  312. 

Kemp,  William,  255,  268. 
King  James,  225,  254,  269. 
A'lN^  John,  260. 
Kbiff  Lear,  182,  270,  303. 
Kronberg,  300. 

Label,  interpolated  use  of,  104. 

Lady  Capulet,  152,  153,  154,  155, 159. 

Lady  Macbeth  wills  her  husband's 
advancement,  200;  aroused  by 
news  of  the  King's  coming,  201 ; 
prays  for  help  against  her  weak- 
ness, 201 ;  worships  her  husband, 
202 ;  controls  her  husband,  205  ; 
essays  the  killing,  207;  her  first 
blunder,  209;  her  swoon,  211 ;  ap- 
pears but  once  as  Queen,  211; 
drives  away  her  guests,  217  ;  walks 
in  her  sleep,  224. 

Lady  Macduff,  butchery  of,  219 ; 
idealised  through  her  son,  220. 

Lear,  not  savage  or  brutish,  309. 

Leontes,  insults  of,  to  King  of  Bohe- 
mia, III,  112;  puts  on  his  Queen 
the  burden  of  making  Folyxenes 
stay,  112;  his  jealousy,  113;  his 
irony  to  the  Queen,  115;  goes 
aside  with  Mamiilius,  116;  invades 
the  Queen's  apartments,  120;  ex- 
asperated by  her  repose,  122;  ap- 
plies to  the  oracle  at  Delphi,  123; 
stands  in  awe  of  the  Queen's 
strength,  126;  forces  Antigonus  to 
expose  the  child,  128;  summons 
the  sessions,  129 ;  impugns  the 
oracle,  132 ;  confesses  his  insin- 
cerity, 133;  proposes  daily  grief, 
137. 


Literature,  an  institutional  device,  7. 
Literature  of  Shakespeare,  330,  331. 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  263. 
Love's  Labour's  l\'on,  267. 
Lucius,  belittled  by  the  author,  98  n. 
Lucrece,  258. 

Macbeth,  how  to  make  a  hero  of, 
186 ;  did  not  kill  Macdonwald,  186 ; 
obliged  to  defeat  the  Danes,  191 ; 
aided  by  witchcraft,  191 ;  delivers 
Scotland,  193;  cousin  of  Duncan, 
193;  the  hero  of  the  country,  196; 
his  loyalty  to  the  king,  198 ;  a  free 
moral  agent,  199  ;  feels  his  first  fear, 
202  ;  his  first  blunder,  209  ;  subordi- 
nation to  Macduff,  210;  appears 
crowned  but  once,  211 ;  as  the 
Third  Murderer,  214;  sleepless  and 
crazed,  215;  identifies  the  appari- 
tion of  Banquo,  216;  his  acceler- 
ated decline,  218 ;  withdraws  to 
Dunsinane,  224. 

Macbeth,  182;  first  scene  in,  187;  a 
simple  play,  194  ;  knocking  on  the 
gate  in,  208;  why  a  tragedy,  213; 
made  perhaps  on  requisition  of 
King  James,  225 ;  production  of, 
270 ;  place  of,  in  the  grouping,  287. 

Macdonwald,  185,  186,  191,  205. 

Macduff,  the  strong  man  of  the  play, 
209;  disconcerts  Macbeth,  210; 
characterised  through  his  son,  220  ; 
subordinated  by  Malcolm,  221 ;  his 
new  motive  for  vengeance,  223. 

Major  obstacle  in  Macbeth,  198; 
resolution  of,  205,  208 ;  in  Cymbe- 
line,  226;  in  The  Whiter  s  Tale, 
22j;  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  2,2.g;  in 
Richard  Carvel,  231 ;  in  Qucntin 
Durward,  232;  in  Evan  Harring- 
ton, 233  ;  in  The  Princess,  234. 

Malcolm,  saved  from  capture,  190; 
made  Prince  of  Cumberland,  199; 
aroused  by  the  bell,  210;  must  suc- 
ceed Macbeth,  220;  subordinates 
Macduff,  221 ;  amended  martially, 
223. 

Mamiilius,  praised  for  his  mother's 
sake.  III ;  used  against  Hermione, 
115;  prefers  his  mother's  company 
to  toys,  118;  his  penetration,  119; 
his  ghost  stories,  119;  instructed 
by  his  father  in  his  mother's  shames, 
126. 


412 


INDEX 


Man's  selfishness  and  woman's  sacri- 
fice, i8o. 

Marienlist  palace,  300. 

Masters  of  the  witches,  188,  191. 

Maximum  consummation,  184, 193, 197, 
211,  212,  224,  229,  231,233,  234,  235. 

Measure  for  Measure,  270. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  182,  263,  287, 
288,  326. 

Mercutio,  nearest  friend  to  Romeo, 
156;  ridicules  Romeo's  devotion, 
163;  not  high-minded,  164;  appro- 
priation and  merging  of,  in  Romeo, 
177. 

Meres,  Francis,  265,  271. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  249,  268. 

Aiidsummer  Night's  Dream,  287,  321. 

Minor  Obstacle  in  Macbeth,  197; 
resolution  of,  199,  205 ;  in  Cymbe- 
line,  226;  in  The  Winter's  Tale, 
228  ;  in  Romeo  and  yttliet,  229 ;  in 
Richard  Carvel,  231 ;  in  Qucntin 
Durward,  232;  in  Evan  Harring- 
ton, 233  ;  in  The  Princess,  234. 

Moral  Plays,  287. 

Much  Ado,  268,  287,  320. 

Mysteries,  the  ancient,  240. 

Novel,  constructed  on  Shakespeare's 
plan,  197,  230;  Richard  Carvel, 
231 ;  Quentin  Durward,  231 ;  Evan 
Harrington,  232;    Quo   Vadis,  235. 

Nurse,  Juliet's,  152,  153, 154, 160, 171, 
172,  177,  179. 

Othello,  182,  269,  289,  313. 

Palladis  Tamia,  265,  271. 

Paris,  152,  155,  157. 

Pauline,  not  found  in  Greene's  novel, 
124;  the  need  of  such  a  character, 
124,  125 ;  brings  the  babe  before 
the  king,  126;  defies  the  king's 
guards,  127;  pursues  the  king  with 
invective,  133;  relents,  and  begs 
the  king's  forgiveness,  134;  keeps 
the  queen  in  hiding,  137. 

Perdita,  arrayed  in  palace  finery, 
143 ;  tested,  as  mistress  of  the  festi- 
val, 144;  makes  her  own  social 
forms,  145;  captivates  Camillo, 
145 ;  keeps  aloof  from  the  finery, 
146 ;  tried  by  the  anger  of  the  King, 
147 ;  subordinated  to  her  mother, 
148 ;  her  precontract,  248. 


Pericles,  Prince  of  Tyre,  270. 

Personal  Plays,  287. 

Pisanio,  patronised  by  the  Queen,  17 ; 
a  man  of  years,  21 ;  perplexed  by 
Imogen,  66;  prepares  Imogen  to 
seek  her  husband,  68 ;  enters  ser- 
vice of  Cloten,  71. 

Polyxenes,  strange  attachment  of,  to 
King  of  Sicily,  in  ;  his  rhetorical 
leave-taking,  in;  piqued  by  his 
friend,  112;  considers  himself  per- 
suaded by  Hermione  to  remain, 
113;  his  inconsistency,  116;  in- 
sensible to  the  consequences  of  his 
flight,  118  ;  in  disguise  at  the  sheep- 
shearing  festival,  144;  used  as 
means  of  turning  the  plot,  146. 

Posthumus,  relatively  weak,  12;  as- 
saulted by  Cloten,  18  ;  over-reached 
by  lachimo,  26,  55;  his  unmanly 
vengeance,  61;  his  remorse,  92; 
strikes  Imogen,  100;  forgives  lach- 
imo, 103. 

Precontract  of  marriage,  146, 247,  248. 

'  Principalities,"  use  of,  in  Macbeth, 
186. 

Prolonged  time,  impressions  of,  in 
Romeo  and  yuliet,  170. 

Puns  in  Romeo  and  yuliet,  168. 

Queen,  pretends  sympathy  with 
Imogen,  10;  brings  Cymbeline  to 
interrupt  the  lovers,  14;  receives 
drugs  from  the  court  physician,  28  ; 
answers  Lucius,  58  ;  twits  the  king 
of  slowness,  70;  death  reported  by 
Cornelius,  96. 

Queen  Elizabeth,  241,  260,  263,  268, 
269. 

Quentin  Durward,  231. 

Quiney,  Thomas,  275. 

Reading  between  the  lines,  194. 
Reading  Shakespeare, difficulties  of,  4. 
Regan,  304,  306,  307,  308,  309,  310. 
Returne  from  Pernassus,  269. 
Richard  Carvel,  231. 
Richard  II,  260,  262,  268. 
Richard  HI,  260,  262,  287. 
Richardson,  John,  246. 
Robert  of  Gloucester's  Chronicle,  312. 
Roman  lieutenant,  sets  out  to  meet 

Lucius,  87. 
Romeo,  in  love  with  his  ideals  of  love, 

151 ;  falsely  enamoured  of  Rosaline, 


INDEX 


413 


152 ;  considerate  of  the  servant,  152 ; 
discovers  Juliet,  156;  enters  the 
garden  of  the  Capulets,  163  ;  over- 
hears Juliet's  soliloquy,  165;  his 
romantic  mind,  167  ;  inherits  Mer- 
cutio's  gifts  and  brilliancy,  177. 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  purpose  of  street 
fray  in,  150 ;    deeper   meaning  of, 
178 ;    superior  to   Cymbeline,    181 
maximum  consummation  in,  184 
brought  out  at  The  Curtain,  261 
printed,  262. 

Rosaline,  152,  162,  163. 

Rosalynde,  ot  Thomas  Lodge,  325. 

Ross,  193,  198,  219,  222. 

Ross  and  Angus,  197,  198. 

Sandells,  Fulk,  246. 

Scourge  of  Simony,  268. 

Second  Witch,  as  Norn  of  the 
Present,  196;  prophecy  of,  con- 
firmed, 198. 

Sejanus,  255. 

Separation  of  acts  of  a  play,  217. 

Sergeant,  need  of,  190;  time  of  his 
coming  from  the  field,  192. 

Shakespeare,  Edmund,  239,  270. 

Shakespeare,  Gilbert,  239. 

Shakespeare,  Hamnet,  246,  261. 

Shakespeare,  Joan,  239. 

Shakespeare,  John,  marriage  of,  237 ; 
birthplace  of,  238 ;  removal  of,  to 
Stratford,  238 ;  purchase  of  Henley 
Street  house  by,  239 ;  pursued  for 
debt,  244. 

Shakespeare,  Judith,  246,  275,  280. 

Shakespeare,  Richard,  239. 

Shakespeare's  company,  254. 

Shakespeare's  public,  2. 

Shakespeare,  Susanna,  245,  270,  276, 
278. 

Shakespeare's  women,  142,  174. 

Shakespeare,  William,  climaxes  of, 
84;  models  of,  107;  as  a  revealer, 
108;  as  artist,  109;  of  same  ideals 
at  twenty-eight  as  at  forty-six,  175  ; 
unchanged  in  insight,  181;  birth 
of,  236 ;  first  mention  of,  236 ; 
mother  of,  237 ;  teachers  of,  243 ; 
Latin,  knowledge  of,  243;  mar- 
riage of,  245;  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's 
persecution  of,  249 ;  removal  to 
London,  250;  attack  upon,  by 
Greene,  251 ;  applies  for  coat 
armour,    261 ;    buys    New    Place, 


261 ;  Jonson's  tribute  to,  265 ; 
Mere's  praise  of,  265 ;  buys  tithes 
ot  Strattord,  270 ;  optimism  of,  273  ; 
buys  a  house  in  Blackfriars,  274; 
returns  to  Stratford,  275 ;  his  will, 
275 ;  inscription  on  tomb  of,  277 ; 
saneness  of,  280;  conviviality  of, 
281 ;  originality  of,  286. 

Shallow,  Justice,  249. 

Shottery,  240. 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  271,  281. 

Siward,  the  Elder,  used  to  amend 
Malcolm,  223. 

Sonnets,  Shakespeare's,  270;  dark 
lady  of,  272. 

Stratford  bust,  277. 

Stratford  upon  Avon,  239. 

Subjective  climax,  in  Shakespeare's 
plays,  136;  in  Macbeth,  "zij ;  in 
Cymbeline,  230;  in  'The  Winter's 
Tale,  230;  in  Romeo  and  fuUet, 
230;  in  Richard  Carvel,  231;  in 
Quentin  Durward,  232 ;  in  Evan 
Harrington ,  233 ;  in  Tennyson's 
The  Princess,  234. 

Ta?ning  of  the  Shrew,  283,  322. 

Theatre,  the,  175,  250. 

The  Princess,  of  Tennyson,  234. 

The  Tempest,  274,  287. 

Third  Act  begins  new  action,    128, 

211. 
Third  Murderer,  214. 
Third  Witch,  not  summoned,  189; 

aids  Macbeth,  191 ;  as  Norn  of  the 

Future,  197. 
Timber,  Ben  Jonson's,  285. 
Ti?non  of  Athens,  270. 
Titus  Andronicus,  259,  287. 
Tragedy,  first  condition  of,  184. 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  270,  289. 
Twelfth  Night,  176,  182,  248,  268,  287, 

288,  323. 

Ultimate  purpose  of  novels,  233 ;  of 
Richard  Carvel,  233;  of  Quentin 
Durivard,  233  ;  of  Evan  Harring- 
ton, 234. 

Use  of  the  questions,  4,  330. 

Fenus  and  Adonis,  257. 
Viola,  176,  287. 

Warwick,  241. 
What  all  men  seek,  6. 


414 


INDEX 


What  it  is  to  be  educated,  7. 

What  Shakespeare  can  supply,  7. 

Winter's  Tale,  opened  Uke  Cy7n- 
beline,  iii;  subjective  cUmax  in, 
230 ;  plot  of,  not  absurd,  140  ;  maxi- 
mum consummation  in,  184;  may 
be  considered  a  comedy,  228 ;  date 
of,  274. 

Witches,  use  of,  at  once  in  Macbeth 


187;  their  storm,  187;  their  com- 
ing together,  188 ;  different  in 
knowledge,  188;  their  summons, 
188  ;  return  of,  195 ;  wind  up  their 
charm,  ig6;  produce  the  air- 
drawn  dagger,  206 ;  raise  an  ap- 
parition of  Banquo,  215 ;  compro- 
mise Macbeth,  216. 
Wriothesley,  Henry,  257,  259,  262. 


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